


Damocles

by DrivelLegion



Category: Warhammer 40.000
Genre: Damocles Crusade, Imperium of Man - Freeform, Other, Tau Empire
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-13
Updated: 2020-02-13
Packaged: 2021-02-28 04:47:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 16
Words: 36,138
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22698094
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DrivelLegion/pseuds/DrivelLegion
Summary: The T'au Empire is a proud and mighty federation of planets, a union of many races under the banner of a single purpose, a shared goal known as the Greater Good. They have expanded into the galaxy, seeking new worlds to convert to their superior philosophy of self-sacrifice and collectivism. So far they have had great success and little resistance, but they will not remain unopposed for long. A monster has slumbered in the darkness of the space beyond their star charts, a massive empire that dwarfs the T'au in size and power, the Imperium of Man. In their quest for expansion they have awoken the beast, and now it is upon them with a force large enough to crush their fledgling empire once and for all. Can the T'au survive the wrath of the Imperium, or will the Greater Good perish in the wake of their own destruction?
Comments: 17
Kudos: 22





	1. Chapter 1

Aun'El T'au En'Vo walked with his head held high, flanked on either side by his attendants and a cadre of fire warriors. His strut was regal, almost arrogant as he strolled through the ornate palace. The locals called the planet Tisram IX, a world of intense poverty and vast, untapped resources. The citadel that the ethereal had entered was an imposing structure, an edifice of columns that reached for the sky and sculptures of incredible size and beauty. It was a far cry from the filth-laden streets and starving beggars in the hive city beyond. The man who lived within these walls was a man of decadence, a luxurious lifestyle earned on the backs of his workers. El En'Vo wrinkled his neck, a t'au gesture of disgust. Such behavior was not tolerated in his empire. The Greater Good commanded benevolence on the part of the rulers, the greatest outcome for the largest number. Individual wealth, even among the upper castes, was discouraged strongly. Such behavior encouraged revolutionary thoughts, and though that fact would prove useful here in the short term, it did little to encourage the longevity of a regime. It was a lesson that the governor of Tisram IX would soon learn the hard way.

The group soon reached a set of large wooden doors, guarded by a pair of human soldiers. They were taller and physically stronger than the t'au, but their armor and weapons were primitive in comparison. They held archaic auto-projectile guns across their chests, barring the way until the aliens had drawn closer. With perfect discipline they stepped aside, pulling open the doors and allowing the t'au to enter the governor's office. The room was made almost entirely of an expensive dark wood, its surface polished to a mirror-like sheen. Paintings, models of voidcraft, plaques of self-awarded medals, and other compensatory ornaments decorated the space, and as the aliens filed in they beheld the man himself.

Governor Lyro was not an imposing man by an measurement. He was short, rotund, balding, and babyfaced. Despite this, he sat in his chair wearing an expression of total confidence. He sat erect with his hands folded on his desk, his eyes narrow and his lips curled in an arrogant sneer. He was a man who was used to being in control, and the t'au had given special attention to stroking his ego. Behind him stood Por'Vre Vior'la Vos'Kess'Sel, one of the Water Caste's rising stars. She was beautiful, softspoken, cunning, and wise beyond her years. She had adopted the look of the Gue'la, letting her red hair fall past her shoulders, smoothing the texture of her blue skin to make it soft to the touch, raising the bones on the front of her face to resemble a human nose, and growing a set of feminine curves and a generous bust. She looked almost human, but more exotic and enticing to their often unrestrainable libido. She had been the governor's personal consort for two years, showing him exactly what the T'au Empire could offer him in a way he could understand. It was a weakness all humans shared, an attraction to the forbidden fruit of lust, and the Water Caste had made sure to exploit it. El En'Vo nodded to Vre Vos'Kess'Sel, then to Governor Lyro.

"Greetings," said the Ethereal, bowing low. "On behalf of the T'au Empire, I offer my gratitude for allowing us to visit your lovely world. I am Aun'El T'au En'Vo."

"The pleasure is mine," answered the governor, his voice stronger and more commanding than his frame would imply. "Years of distant cooperation and trade, and now the mythical Ethereal Caste finally reveals itself. I can't deny that I've been looking forward to this. Please, take a seat."

El En'Vo smiled. "I appreciate the offer, but if you do not mind, I have been sitting for the past three days. I would prefer to stand." It was a bluff, of course. Standing was a simple way to appear larger than your opponent, to make him feel small. It was a power play, and even a novice politician could have seen through it. Lyro either did not see, or did not care.

"Suit yourself," said the governor. "Now, the purpose of your visit must be an important one. What business is so pressing as to require your personal attention?"

"I have been through the streets of your cities," said El En'Vo. "For years we have been watching them, looking to fulfill their needs. And yet so many are still paupers. Why is that?"

Lyro shrugged. "Ungrateful lot, all of them. They probably squandered all your fancy tech machines on booze and whores. You know how common folk are."

"That is not the report that we have heard from them." The ethereal's voice was soft, but there was an edge behind it that cut through the smoke of political shielding. "According to the men at the spaceport, our goods never reached the hands of your people. They were diverted here."

The governor's pleasant expression vanished, replaced with a defensive scowl. "What's it to you? The goods were purchased and paid for. What business is it of yours what is done with them afterward?"

El En'Vo shook his head slowly. "You mistake us for simple salesmen, Governor. We are not peddlers or merchants. We are an empire, the most powerful the galaxy has ever known. We did not sell you goods. We provided care for your people, care that you did not provide them yourself."

"Get to the point," Lyro hissed. Vre Vos'Kess'Sel laid a delicate hand on his arm, and his redfaced anger dwindled slightly at her touch. "You did not come here just to criticize my distribution infrastructure," he continued. "What is the true reason for your visit?"

"It is related," said El En'Vo. "Your people now clamor for an end to your rule, Governor. They are discontented, volatile. The slightest spark could mean a revolt the likes of which your defense force could not hope to suppress."

"So you came to depose me?" Lyro demanded, rising from his chair. "You've come to usurp my right to this world, my birthright to this place?"

"We are not so cruel," said Vre Vos'Kess'Sel, stroking his arm as she drew close to his ear. "Hear him out, Lyro. Please? We only seek to help you."

Lyro's gaze swept across her body, moving from her feet to her face, lingering on her chest as a different redness crept into his face. "Alright, Kessie," he said. "I'll listen. Continue, El En'Vo."

El En'Vo nodded. "I propose we make a compromise. You announce to the people that you are joining our bountiful empire. Then we distribute our goods to them directly. In return, we grant you our protection and endorsement. You will remain governor and you may rule as you see fit, so long as a minimum quality of life for your citizens is maintained."

The governor rested a clenched fist on his desk. "And if I refuse?"

El En'Vo shrugged. "Then we leave your world just as we found it, taking our goods with us. Our departure won't make your people happy, but I'm sure your confidence in your guards is deserved. However, we cannot be held responsible for anything that happens afterward. That will be entirely your problem, and we will not commit any troops to your protection."

Lyro's face began to pale as he realized he was beaten. He had been outmaneuvered, and now he had few options left other than the ones the aliens dictated to him. "You've signed our death warrants," he said.

El En'Vo tilted his head in confusion. "How so? Your planet will be prosperous under our care. Life will improve. We are not cruel overlords, Governor. Our yoke is light and your planet has many resources."

"I don't give a damn about your empire," Lyro replied venomously. "I could keep my profiteering out of sight, hidden from those who watch over us, but when you take over that will change. You cannot blindly take worlds for yourselves. Their will be retribution. This world is aligned with an empire already."

"So you've said many times," said Vre Vos'Kess'Sel. "I told you that our forces can outmatch any other and that you have nothing to-"

"Yes," Lyro interrupted. "And as you'll recall, I promptly filled your mouth with something to make you stop talking." He whirled back upon El En'Vo, jabbing a stubby finger at him. "You people know nothing of the Imperium of Man. They are uncountable. Their soldiers are monsters, invincible demigods in holy armor. They are protected by the spirit of the Emperor, and they destroy empires like yours every day without so much as a flinch. They will come for you, and when they do they will burn everything. Entire planets will melt and skies will rain with fire."

"We have heard all this before," said El En'Vo with a wave of his hand. "We've been hearing it for decades. Yet your mythical 'Imperium of Man' has always failed to appear. You worry about things you have never seen, whispers in the shadows and old wives' tales. Rest assured, your world will be well protected from any countermove by the Human Empire. Our forces are the strongest in the galaxy. Our weapons destroy our foes before they even reach us. Our tactics confound all who throw their inferior intellects against us. You will be safe, Governor."

Lyro shook his head, his shoulders slumping in defeat. "No. No, I want no part in it. This world is forfeit. I will withdraw to the worlds of the Imperium. Perhaps there I can find solace. Do what you want with this place. It will soon be destroyed, and you along with it."

-

"I feel I should apologize," said Vre Vos'Kess'Sel as she walked away from the governor's office with the rest of the contingent.

"For what?" asked El En'Vo.

"I failed, Aun'El," she replied. "My efforts did nothing to sway him. This will be a blemish upon my record."

"Ridiculous," said the ethereal. "Without you we would not have even gained an audience at all. Thanks to you we progressed ahead of schedule and without any bloodshed. There will be no revolt, no violent change of regimes, no leaders dragged through the streets."

"My assignment was to convince the governor to join us," Vre Vos'Kess'Sel pointed out. "Despite my best efforts, he refused our offer."

"And he gave us something of far greater value," said El En'Vo. "We now have the ability to impose direct rule over the planet. You have risen through the ranks quickly, but you are still young. Do not let your assignments dictate your success. The optimal outcome is not always the one you prepare for. Surely you can see how well you have done. You have performed a grand service to the Greater Good. Why do you doubt yourself?"

Vre Vos'Kess'Sel took a moment to tie her hair back, her face flattening into its usual shape as she searched for a response. "It's this Imperium of Man he mentioned. I have heard people talk about it before, but I have never seen anyone so utterly convinced of its stature. I spent a lot of time with Governor Lyro. He may be inept and a liar, but he is not a coward. He is brazen, often to his own detriment. Yet when speaking of the Imperium he shook like a leaf in the breeze. What could be so horrible as to inspire so much fear in such a man?"

"Ancient legends and superstitions," replied El En'Vo. "Nothing more. These human worlds are filled with such backward thinking."

"Legends are often based on truth," said Vre Vos'Kess'Sel. "I fear that he may have been telling the truth."

"You've spent too much time in his bedchambers," said the ethereal. "A few weeks among your own people once again and you will forget your worries. We wield the greatest military might in all the galaxy. Nothing more powerful than the Fire Caste could ever possibly exist. Come. Let us return to our ship. If the Human Empire does appear, you will see firsthand how the humans exaggerate their tales."

As the t'au conversed, even as they boarded their landing craft to return to orbit, a report was being written millions of light years away. A lone administrator sat at a desk, poring over a scroll that revealed itself before him as it rolled out from the device mounted beneath his chin. Cogitators in his mind clicked and whirred with clockwork precision, relaying to him what notes to take down. His quill pen traced over the parchment with superhuman speed, like the actions of one bred specifically for this one task.

"Damocles Crusade," the report read. "Forces allocated: 14 capital ships and attached support craft. 5 provisional companies of Adeptus Astartes, 19 regiments of Astra Militarum. Forces deemed adequate to eliminate xenos threat. Allocation ends. All forces are to be raised and deployed immediately. Assign to General Wendall Gauge and transmit. The Emperor Protects." The administrator tore the parchment free, rolling it into a scroll and sealing it with wax. The emblem of a two-headed eagle sat proudly on the seal. The clerk passed the report on to his assistant, and it was filed in its proper place, just one small note among billions. He then returned to his desk, his quill scratching away as another note began to run through his cogitators.


	2. Chapter 2

Kor'La T'au Kri redirected power from his forward deflectors into his main engines, his fingers racing across the control panel with the practiced urgency of an experienced pilot. The barracuda whined in protest as it was pushed beyond its recommended limits. The cockpit shuddered with the strain, and then bucked violently as he slammed back on the yoke. The nose lifted and a flurry of blue energy shot past the canopy, barely missing the craft as it evaded the attack. La Kri activated his targeting module and armed his missile pods, then turned the yoke and pressed the left pedal. With an easy motion he slid into position behind his attacker, waiting for his computer to acquire a lock. A second later and the targeting reticle flashed red and he hit the switch, calling out into his communicator.

"Star 4, A3."

Two missiles blazed forth, streaking through the blackness as they sought their target. The enemy ship banked to port and pulled away, seeking to shake off the projectiles. La Kri had anticipated the move, and as his opponent turned he was already aligning his ion cannon ahead of the enemy's flight path. The weapon took a moment to charge, filling the cockpit with an electromagnetic hum before it discharged. His shot would have disintegrated the other ship, had its pilot not suddenly put his nose down, dodging both the ion cannon and the pair of missiles at the same time. La Kri cursed to himself. He cut back on his thrust and turned sharply to fall in behind the other ship. It tried to bank away from him, rolling in a cyclonic pattern in an attempt to force him to overshoot. La Kri reduced his speed further and copied the maneuver with an opposite rotation, charging his ion cannon once again. As the two crafts passed one another in their rotations he fired, but just as before he failed to connect. La Kri reversed the direction of his spin, following the enemy directly. He activated the gunner drones mounted on the barracuda's wingtips and connected them to the targeting module. The AI analyzed his opponents flight pattern and transmitted a firing solution to the drones. The rotary cannons spooled up of their own accord, and just as La Kri pulled in behind his quarry they opened fire. The first few pulse blasts found their mark, burning black marks into its fuselage. Its pilot reacted quickly and dove, but both La Kri and the AI had predicted the move. La Kri dove with him, and the targeting module corrected itself. The rotary cannons fired again, this time sending a sustained burst directly into the primary engine banks. There was a brief flash as the fuel cells ignited, exploding in a hail of debris and burning dust before the vacuum snuffed out the flames.

La Kri let out a breath as the images beyond the canopy faded out. He heard Kor'La T'au Nel yelling in frustration from across the bay, and he could not help but smile to himself as the door to the simulator slid open. He exited the pod-like machine, pushing himself out to float in the gravity-free environment beyond. La Nel exited his pod next, running headlong into the crowd of amused onlookers that had been watching their dogfight on the bay's central screen. La Nel was trying to make for the exit, perhaps hoping to slink away unnoticed. La Kri would not let him get off that easily.

"Hey, La Nel!" he shouted, earning a chorus of laughter from the observers. "Where do you think you're going? I think you owe me something."

"I left it in my quarters," La Nel replied coldly. "I'll go and get it."

"Oh, no you don't!" Said Kor'La T'au Hora as she flew across the bay. She slammed into La Nel and pinned him to the wall. She gave him a sneer as he struggled to push her away, but she latched her hands onto a nearby railing and held them both in place until La Kri caught up with them.

"Thank you, La Hora," said La Kri. "Hand it over, La Nel."

La Nel tossed La Hora away, taking a second to glare at her before producing a small golden coin from the pocket of his flight suit. He handed it to La Kri, who held it up to the light. The young Air Caste aspirant examined it from every angle. He let the rays dance across its surface, illuminating the relief etching of a two-headed eagle. La Kri grinned as he flicked the prize into the air and caught it again.

"Where did you get this?" he asked.

"One of the fire warriors had a whole fistful of them," said La Nel. "He was telling the others how he had found them in a gue'la storehouse that his cadre had secured. He dropped one as he left in his dropship, so I picked it up after he had gone."

La Hora whistled. "That's contraband. He could get in a lot of trouble if his commander ever finds out."

"The way I heard it, his commander had snagged a small fortune of his own," said La Nel, who then shrugged. "Fire Caste always do get distracted by shiny trinkets."

"They aren't the only ones," said La Hora, throwing a jab at his shoulder. "You let La Kri shoot you down. What, were you staring at the coin the whole time?"

"He didn't just let me, La Hora," said La Kri. "He put up a good fight. I had a terrible time hitting him, wasted a lot more ammunition than the Kor'O would have liked. If we were still in Basic Flight she would have had me strapped into the G-chamber for weeks."

"It wasn't a fair fight to begin with," La Nel pointed out, returning La Hora's jab. "Nobody's ever beaten La Kri in the simulator, not even you."

La Kri examined the coin again, turning it over and letting the cold metal run across his slender fingers. "I've never seen a creature like this. Does this planet really have two-headed birds flying around?"

"If they do, nobody said anything," said La Nel. "Maybe it's symbolic. I don't know. Does it matter?"

"Not really," La Kri replied. "I'm just curious. Well, if nothing else, it's a nice trinket. Thanks for the practice, La Nel." With a wink he turned away and made for the exit. The automatic door slid quietly open, leading him to a brilliantly lit hallway of pristine white walls. He tapped a button near the door and a handle deployed from within a nearby panel. La Kri closed his fingers around it, and it began to move along the length of the corridor, pulling him through the weightless environment.

"La Kri, wait up!" called La Hora. She launched herself off the wall, floating with enough velocity to catch up with him. She caught his shoulder and held on, letting the handle carry both of them.

"What is it?" asked La Kri.

La Hora grinned at him. She tossed her single, orange braid over her shoulder. Without gravity to weigh it down, her hair was often an obstacle when not restrained beneath her flight helmet. Even so, she preferred to keep it long. La Kri didn't mind. If anything, he found its movement in space mesmerizing, as if it bore a life all its own. "While you two were in the simulator they made an announcement over the comm," she said. "We're being sent to the Hydass system to rendezvous with the Snowcap. There's going to be a joint training exercise."

"The Snowcap?" La Kri echoed. "That's a Vior'la ship, isn't it?"

La Hora nodded. "Yeah. And their flight crews want to test our pilots. If we impress them, they might even offer us a chance at Kor'Vre status."

"Kor'Vre? You mean they would recommend us for active combat duty?"

"And the opportunity to join one of the lead attack squadrons," said La Hora. "Imagine it, the honor of being the Empire's first line of defense!"

La Kri nodded silently, the awe of the proposition nearly overwhelming him. All Air Caste sought advancement, to achieve the honor of moving up the chain of command. Opportunities to do so were rare and often the few chances that did exist were notoriously difficult. Even so, any pilot would jump at the chance to prove himself. "How many pilots are they looking to promote?" asked La Kri.

"No one knows," said La Hora. "All we know is that they want to see how we do. Are you going to take on their challenge?"

La Kri laughed. "Obviously. I know you are. Can't have you moving on and leaving me behind."

La Hora winked at him. "You'd miss me, eh?"

"Maybe, but don't tell anyone else I said so." La Kri pulled her hand from his shoulder, giving it a light squeeze before releasing her. "I've got to go now. Are we still on for dinner later?"

"Wouldn't miss it," La Hora replied. She watched La Kri turn away then caught herself on the wall. She slowed to a stop and waved to him as he disappeared around a corner.


	3. Chapter 3

The Starlight's mess hall was a fairly basic, though not uncomfortable space. Unlike the garish white of the halls and corridors, the walls here were dark blue. Light rods were spaced less frequently across the ceiling, allowing for a gentler, more ambient lighting. It felt instantly calm and comfortable. There was no furniture, as the absence of gravity made them impractical. Instead the Air Caste hovered in the air, congregating in groups of three to four. Direction was a meaningless concept. Some faced upward, others downward, some left and some right.

La Kri moved near the kiosk in the far corner of the mess hall, allowing the device to scan the identification chip implanted beneath the skin of his neck. The machine buzzed for half a second before dispensing a sealed, premeasured ration. La Kri took the unit and pushed himself away from the wall. La Hora waited for him across the room, and as he drew near she caught his arm. She glanced down at his ration and grumbled.

"You got darvo? Why can't I ever get that lucky?"

"Maybe the machine just doesn't like you," La Kri replied, peeling back the wrapper and taking a sizeable bite from its contents. Darvo was a sweet tasting herb and berry wrap, loaded with nutrients. It was a favorite all across the empire, though the odds of having a portion issued were rarer than more common foods. La Kri nodded to La Hora as he chewed his dinner, relishing its rich flavor. "What did you get?"

"Standard nutri-biscuits," she said. "Same as last time and the time before. Makes you wonder if the thing is as random as they say."

La Kri held out the darvo. "Want to swap?"

La Hora sighed, smiling widely as she shook her head. "That's sweet of you, La Kri, but I don't want to steal your enjoyment just because I got unlucky."

"I got hili last time," said La Kri. "That means you've been getting the bland stuff more than me. It's only fair."

"Randomness is what's fair," said La Hora. "That's why they designed it that way. On average nobody eats better than anyone else. Trading doesn't support the Greater Good."

"Giving your bounty to the less fortunate also supports the Greater Good," La Kri pointed out. He took La Hora's hand and pressed the darvo into her palm. "Enjoy it, La Hora. I know it's your favorite."

La Hora passed him the nutri-biscuits with a groan. "Fine. You convinced me. Are you this generous with all the girls?"

La Kri chuckled as he took a bite from the biscuit. It was dry and chalky, devoid of any flavor, but he didn't mind. The smile on La Hora's face was worth it. "That's classified, Kor'La," he said.

"You don't outrank me," said La Hora.

La Kri winked. "No, but I will once I pass the trials at Hydass and leave you in the dust."

La Hora scowled and slapped his arm, but the stern expression melted a bit as she took a bite of darvo. "You wouldn't leave me behind," she said. "You'd miss me too much and you know it."

La Kri shrugged. "You've got a point. We've been side by side since Basic. It just wouldn't feel right." He bit into the biscuit again and spoke with his mouth half full. "Any idea how long it'll be before we reach Hydass?"

"About three standard hours," said La Hora. "It's the prefect place for performance testing. I was looking over the charts a while ago, and the planet is almost engulfed with asteroids."

"Hell of a place for a dogfight," La Kri agreed. "Plenty of places to hide, debris to shield against missiles, and motion trackers would be rendered useless with so many contacts."

"Plus the need to avoid collisions," said La Hora.

La Kri tucked his legs beneath him, taking a more relaxed seated position in the air as he chewed thoughtfully on his ration. "Nervous?" he asked.

"I'd be crazy not to be," La Hora replied. "Chances like this don't come up often. If we don't make it, it could be years before we get another shot."

"You're a good pilot," said La Kri. "I wouldn't worry about it. I'd easily place you above anyone on a Vior'la crew."

La Hora crossed her arms. "I'd feel a lot better about it if my service record didn't have so many simulator losses on it." She let a sarcastic tone creep into her voice. "Thanks for that, by the way."

"You're talking like I always shoot you down with ease," said La Kri, placing a hand on her arm. "You're a frustrating opponent. Last time we dueled you lasted almost an hour. That's a long time to be focused on a single dogfight without taking a hit."

"But you still won, even when I tried to tire you out," said La Hora.

La Kri winked at her again. "Well, you of all people should know that I've got stamina to spare."

"Oh, shut up," La Hora brushed his hand away, her cheeks turning a shade of purple as she blushed. "That was one time. Why do you keep bringing it up?"

La Kri shrugged, his face lighting up with a sly grin. "Maybe because I'm hoping that there's a second time somewhere in the near future."

La Hora's eyes narrowed. "You think you're so smooth. But I'm being serious, La Kri. Regardless of how well I performed while fighting you, my win/loss ratio isn't very good. I doubt they'll look much deeper than that."

"You assume that they'll look over your simulator record at all," said La Kri. "If they cared about it, then they wouldn't be conducting a live exercise. You show those Vior'la pilots what you're made of and they'll see how capable you are."

La Hora leaned back and rubbed at her forehead. "I know, but I'm still nervous," she said. "I don't want to fail."

"Don't think about failing," said La Kri. He took her hand in his, letting his vision move beyond her. While he stared at the wall, his gaze seemed to pierce the hull of the Starlight and reach out into the distant stars. "Just think about what honors await us when we succeed. Imagine it, the whole galaxy before us, our people reaching out into space, claiming world after world for the Empire. The Air Caste will lead the way forward, and we will have a place at the front of it all." He straightened himself, squaring his narrow shoulders as his chest swelled with pride. "Star Squadron: defenders of the mighty T'au Empire! All the races of the galaxy trying to hold us down will break against us like winds upon a mountain, and we will be the first line of defence against all others!"

La Hora chuckled and clapped slowly. "A fine speech, worthy of the Water Caste. But fancy words won't earn you your wings."

"Why not?" asked La Kri with a grin. "They got me this far."

-

Kor'O T'au Vil'Tess watched from her station on the Starlight's bridge as Hydass came into view. The helmsman turned his head to look sideways at her as he made his report.

"We have arrived, Kor'O."

The comms officer spoke next. "Kor'O, scanners indicate thirty vessels in the system. Snowcap has taken position on the far side of the second planet."

"Move into standard orbit," said O'Vil'Tess.

Kor'Ui T'au Ha'Dor, her second in command, stroked his chin. "Thirty vessels," he mused aloud. "What are all those ships doing in the Hydass system? There's nothing here."

"Let's hope we can find out," said O'Vil'Tess. "Comms, open hailing frequencies and contact the Snowcap. Inform them of our arrival."

"Confirmed," said the comms officer. "We are receiving. Contact established."

"Snowcap," said O'Vil'Tess, "this is Kor'O T'au Vil'Tess of the Starlight."

"This is Kor'O Vior'la Ba'Heem of the Snowcap," said the comms unit, the voice clear but warbling slightly with the interference of stellar radiation. "Welcome, Starlight. You are ahead of schedule."

"I like to exceed expectations whenever possible, O'Ba'Heem," she replied. "We were told to rendezvous with you here. There was no mention of the large quantity of additional ships in our orders. What is their purpose here?"

"Your guess is as good as mine, O'Vil'Tess," said O'Ba'Heem. "They have not been forthcoming with information, and beyond their initial contact they have refused to respond to our hails. All they have said is that we may conduct our exercise as planned and that we are not to interfere with their mission."

O'Vil'Tess stared at the primary viewscreen, watching as the display began to show the fleet of ships. Her jaw fell open at the spectacle. It was as if half Kor'vattra was in the system, or at least an unusually sizeable portion of it. "It would be a lot easier not to interfere if we knew what their mission was," she said. "I don't like it. I've never seen this many ships together in one place in my entire career."

"It can only mean trouble," O'Ba'Heem agreed. "I believe it would be in our best interest to both conduct and conclude our operations as quickly as possible. Your coordinates will be 371.820.752. Tell your squadrons to prepare for testing."

"Acknowledged," said O'Vil'Tess. "Starlight out."

"Channel closed," said the comms officer.

Ui'Ha'Dor floated closer to the viewscreen, shaking his head at the image. "Helm, lock in those coordinates."

"Coordinates locked in, Kor'Ui," came the response.

"Engage," said O'Vil'Tess as she moved beside her first officer. He looked from the screen to her, then back again.

"I don't like this," he said. "The Kor'Vattra hasn't been deployed like this in half a century. What's worse is that I recognize most of them. The Radiance, the Moonbeam, the Seabreeze, even the Stargazer. Some of the most heavily armed vessels in the fleet are here: Il'fannor class cruisers, older gal'leath battleships, even a Kroot warsphere. What could possibly warrant such a force?"

"Something big," O'Vil'Tess replied. "Big and important. What bothers me is the fact that they haven't told us. High Command clearly knows something that they are only revealing on a need to know basis."

"It doesn't make any sense to me," said Ui'Ha'Dor. "The Starlight and Snowcap are both newly commissioned il'fannors. We could be better used in assisting the Kor'Vattra."

"I assume that High Command wanted experienced crews, Kor'Ui," said O'Vil'Tess. "In any case, it is not our concern. If it was important to know, we would have been told. Continue with operations as normal. I'm going to oversee our pilots' deployment. Kor'Ui T'au Ha'Dor, you have the bridge."

Ui'Ha'Dor gave a salute, crossing his right arm over his chest and extending his fingers upward to touch his left eyebrow. "Aye, Kor'O."

O'Vil'Tess returned the salute and turned about, pushing herself toward the far side of the bridge. She pulled herself through the exit, telling the panel on the wall to take her to the hangar bay. It deployed its handle, and began to pull her in the desired direction.


	4. Chapter 4

Kor'Vre Vior'la Jinn paced back and forth, examining the members of Star Squadron assembled before him. They were all fresh-faced youths, not a single one more than a year past adulthood, and they carried themselves with a nervous confidence. Vre'Jinn had seen it all before. They were eager to earn their wings, but none of them knew what to expect. He cleared his throat and addressed them.

"I am Kor'Vre Vior'la Jinn. Your Kor'O had recommended you for active combat duty. As such, we have been assigned to act as an unbiased third party. We will provide an objective assessment of your capabilities and determine whether or not you are ready to join your brothers and sisters in the fighter wings of the Air Caste. The procedure is simple. We will sortie together and rendezvous at the established coordinates. From there your barracudas will be restricted to training mode, and you will each in turn engage me in a dogfight. I know that the matchup hardly seems fair. I'm sure many of you recognize my name as the ace of the Var'Tesh campaign. However, it is precisely because of my accomplishments that I have been awarded this honored position. Being defeated in our dogfight does not equal failure or rejection, nor does defeating me equal success or acceptance. I am here to observe how you handle your craft, how swiftly you react, and how you respond under pressure. If you wish to pass the test, then those are the areas in which you must focus your efforts. Am I understood?"

The response was instant and unanimous. "Yes, Kor'Vre!"

Vre'Jinn nodded. "Very well. Get to your ships and launch at once. Good luck to all of you."

La'Kri gave his salute and sprinted for his designated fighter. The barracuda waited for him within its launch catapult. It was an elegant craft, possessing a wide wingspan and a low-profiled cockpit that gave it a sleek, sophisticated look. Its ion cannon was mounted to the nose, just off-center from the cockpit. The gun drones on the wingtips were in standby mode, their burst cannons spooling up and down as they tested their own calibrations. La'Kri slid into the pilot's seat and pulled the canopy into place over his head. The conditions in the cockpit were tight, almost cramped, yet surprisingly comfortable. He had little room to move, but just enough to avoid any sense of claustrophobia. The warmth within it and the dim lighting washing off the control displays gave it a snug sensation, like being wrapped in a metal blanket. 

La'Kri relaxed and sank into his seat, enjoying the feel of genuine controls in his hands. He had flown simulated mission programs in the craft dozens of times, but nothing compared to the real thing. The simulators could replicate everything: weight, resistance, handling, g-forces, sight, sound, smell, everything except the simple gut feeling a pilot always felt when in a true fightercraft. La'Kri smiled to himself as he donned his helmet and activated the displays. His suit connected to the computers automatically, feeding information from the sensors directly into his field of view. He could see all around him, even through the body of his ship. With a simple command he could cause the craft to disappear from his view and rely on the external imaging systems to show him his foes, no matter where they tried to hide. He switched on the engines, feeling the rumble in his seat as they began to hum. He cast a glance at the craft in the adjacent catapult, guessing that La'Hora was there. He waved, though he knew she would not be able to see him. With a sudden roar and a jerk of motion the catapult fired, launching La'Kri out into the starscape.

-

Admiral Viers watched as the pulsating blue of the Warp bent around the viewports of the bridge. Space stretched itself out in front of them as the drive tore its way through the fabric of reality, shredding realspace and voidspace as it forced the two into direct contact. The Hand of Righteousness drove through the rift, and the admiral looked upon the Hydass system for the first time.

"Status," he said.

"Scans indicate a fleet gathering around the second planet, Admiral," said the commander. "It is a sizeable force. They outnumber us, but are far smaller than any of our vessels."

"What's their configuration?"

The commander paused as he worked his way across the display panel before him. "Unknown, sir. These ships are not registered in Imperial records."

"Begin gathering data at once," said the admiral. "Helm, what is their bearing?"

"They are on an intercept course," the helmsman replied. "They will be within range in three minutes."

"Good. Ready torpedoes, full spread," said Viers. "Make our intentions clear."

"Sir, the xenos are attempting to hail our ship," said the comms officer. "Should we reply?"

"Negative," Viers replied. "They will know who we are soon enough."

"Understood," said the officer. "The rest of the fleet has completed their transit. I have a transmission from General Gauge."

Viers felt a smile hover about his face as anticipation swelled within him. "Put it on the primary."

The main tactical display on the holotable vanished, replaced with a flat image of the general's face. Even in the low-resolution pict his scarred features were unmistakable. Gauge was a man of Catachan, the feral jungle world of the Ultima Segmentum. Life there was a battle, a never-ending struggle against flesh eating diseases, horrid predators, and carnivorous flora that left its citizens battle-hardened long before serving in the Imperial Guard. The rank of General was usually an inherited title, a noble birthright for the highborn of the Imperium, but Wendall Gauge was different. He had earned his command through sheer force of will and a decorated service record. Every scar on his face had been earned in a different campaign across the vast reaches of the Imperium, and he wore them all as a more refined officer would wear his medals and purity seals.

Admiral Viers placed his palms on his chest, making the sign of the aquila in a typical Imperial salute. "General," he said. "What is your order?"

Gauge's voice was deep and rasping in person, but over the crackling distortion of the vox he sounded almost hellish. His lips twisted into a snarling grin, the only pleasant expression his damaged face could manage. "It seems our presence is somewhat expected," he said. "A fleet is moving to intercept us."

"Yes, we have detected them as well," answered the admiral. "We are preparing to open fire."

Gauge nodded his approval. "Show the xenos no mercy, Admiral, but be on your guard. Our intelligence on their capabilities is limited." He straightened his posture, the smile dwindling as he stared into the distance. "This is your chance for glory. Purge them in flame. Let the Crusade begin."

"At once, General. Viers out." The admiral severed the connection and turned to the helm. "Adjust course to 327 and intercept the xenos. Fire as soon as you are in range."

One of the officers at the auspex station, a woman named Elvara, rose from her seat. "Admiral, I've detected a number of smaller craft in the nearby asteroid field, possibly fighters."

"Ready Fang Squadron for a sortie," Viers replied. "I'm sure the Baron is eager to spill some blood."

At the mention of the Baron's title Elvara's face paled slightly. She hesitated before sitting at her station. "Aye, sir. Fang Squadron, prepare for immediate deployment. Proceed to coordinates 73x26x90. Repeat, Fang Squadron, prepare for immediate deployment. Proceed to coordinates 73x26x90. Enemy fighters in the area."

The response on the vox was immediate, the man's tone hungry and eager. "Fang Squadron acknowledges. Already in our ships. Launching now."

-

La'Kri watched La'Hora's ship pull up beside his. Her fuselage was pockmarked with small, black scorch marks, each indicating where she had taken a simulated hit. La'Kri hailed her comms unit.

"You alright?" he asked.

"I'm fine," La'Hora replied, her tone clearly indicating the opposite. "You should see the other ship. Vre'Jinn is serious business, La'Kri. I've never seen anyone fly like he does. You're in for quite a fight."

La'Kri smiled to himself. "I never turn down a challenge. Tell you what, I'll shoot him down an extra time for you."

La'Hora snorted. "Good luck. I don't think even you can take him."

Vre'Jinn interrupted, his voice slow and droning, as if he was suffering from tremendous boredom. "At your convenience, Kor'La T'au Kri, proceed to the starting position."

"Acknowledged," La'Kri replied. He took a deep breath and steadied the shaking in his hands, then moved his ship to the established location. "In position," he said. "I am ready to begin."

"Understood," said Vre'Jinn. "Your peers seem to hold you in high regard, Kor'La. Tell me, do you believe your reputation is deserved?"

It was an unexpected question. He couldn't remember a superior officer ever asking his opinion on anything. After a moment of consideration he shrugged. "I believe that I have earned their respect, Kor'Vre. I fail to see the relevance to our test."

"Let me rephrase. Do you believe that you will defeat me today?"

"I have never lost an engagement," La'Kri replied. "I am confident in my capabilities. Whether or not they can match your experience, I don't know. However, I can assure you that our battle will not be boring for either of us."

"Is that so? Well then, Kor'La, defend yourself!"

La'Kri's barracuda shuddered around him as a blast impacted from behind. Damage readings flashed across every panel, and the entire cockpit glowed red. La'Kri hit his pedals and jerked on the yoke, but the controls didn't respond. "What in the empire..." he growled.

"I've just killed you," said Vre'Jinn. "In your overconfidence, you allowed me to distract you with idle chatter. Your controls will not respond until I say so."

"You cheated!" La'Kri snarled. "You ordered me into position and did not announce that the engagement had begun!"

Vre'Jinn laughed. "Do you think your opponents will give you that kind of a chance to prepare yourself? If you wish to last one day on active duty then you must learn a little humility. You are not invincible, and battles are never fair. Now, you are down by one. Defend yourself or die again."

The red light vanished as the panels reset themselves. Another blast sounded from behind, but La'Kri was prepared. He slammed the yoke forward, putting his craft into a rolling dive. He gritted his teeth, clenching the controls with a white-knuckled grip as rage tore through him. "I'll make you pay for that," he snarled.

"Good. Anger can focus the mind," said the Kor'Vre. "But don't let it cloud your judgement."

La'Kri checked his sensors. Vre'Jinn was following his every move. He banked left, rolled upward, and turned right. Still the veteran clung to his tail. No matter what maneuver he pulled, he couldn't shake his opponent. Simulated shots blazed past him, missing his barracuda by inches. La'Kri searched his surroundings for cover, and spotted a nearby asteroid. He charged directly toward it, pushing his engines to maximum. Vre'Jinn gave chase, scoring a hit on his left wing. La'Kri ignored the warning and opened fire. The training lasers were weak and did little damage to spacecraft, but the materials in the asteroid were not nearly as robust as the alloys used to build the barracudas. The gunner drones cut through the rock with ease, sending dust and rocky chunks flying in all directions. La'Kri inverted himself and dove, letting the debris conceal his movements. As he came around he charged his ion cannon and set his targeting module. The computer calculated a firing solution, and La'Kri followed its guidance. Vre'Jinn was in the midst of the broken asteroid, opting to search for his missing prey overhead. As he rose, he straightened out and began to fly more slowly. La'Kri felt something in his gut tell him that something was wrong, but he fell in behind Vre'Jinn. He lined up his shot and squeezed the trigger, and was reward with a hit marker on his display. 

"I have evened the score," he said.

"Stand down!" Vre'Jinn snapped.

La'Kri was stunned into silence. He hadn't taken the pilot to be a sore loser, but something in his voice went beyond anger. "What's wrong, Kor'Vre?" he asked.

"Check position 15," Vre'Jinn replied. "Do you see that?"

La'Kri glanced over at the place indicated, just off his port side. The usual blackness of space there had changed, morphing into a swirling mass of purple shades. A massive hole was forming in the void, a maw that could effortlessly swallow a small fleet. It was as if the galaxy itself was being ripped apart in this one place. A pointed prow began to emerge from the portal, magnificently decorated with golden trim and religious iconography. It was larger than any ship La'Kri had ever imagined, easily ten times the size of a battleship. Weapons bristled from every surface, each one decadently adorned with sculptures, statues, and massive symbols. It was clearly a warship, but its needlessly glistening design was impractical and defied explanation. Then La'Kri noticed the image of a two-headed eagle emblazoned on the bow, and he dropped his hand to his pocket. It was a perfect match for the coin he had won the day before.

"It's the humans," he breathed. "Where did they get a ship like that?"

"I don't think our entire fleet could take that monster down," said Vre'Jinn.

As the words drifted in over the comms another hole opened up beside the monstrous vessel. Another began to rip itself into existence on the other. A third appeared, then a fourth and a fifth. An entire line of portals yawned side by side until a total of twelve impossibly large ships had emerged seemingly from nowhere. A swarm of smaller shapes began to pour out of the lead vessel, streaking their way toward the asteroid field.

"Fighters!" cried La'Kri.

"I see them," said Vre'Jinn, a clear wavering in his voice. "Star Squadron, I am deactivating training mode. Stand to and make ready to engage the enemy. If those fighters get past us, they'll tear the Starlight apart."

"There's too many!" said La'Hora. "How are we going to stop them?"

"How are we going to stop them?" Vre'Jinn echoed. "We're going to shoot them. Rally on my coordinates, formation E42. I'll get reinforcements launched. Try to stay alive until they reach us." His next sentence was a joke, but it was devoid of humor. "Congratulations, Star Squadron. You've all just been promoted to active combat duty."


	5. Chapter 5

The enemy fighters poured over Star Squadron like a flood. Bright red streaks cut across the black void, shattering asteroids and melting anything in their paths. They seemed to come from all directions at once, spitting through every possible space until the entire field glowed red. La'Kri's gun drones fired frantically as their sensors were overloaded with targets, and he fired his ion cannon blindly into the swarm. Bursts of flame rewarded him, but two hits to his rear section robbed him of any satisfaction. He threw power into his engines and began to evade. He spun wildly, ducking under blasts of the horrid red energy. His eyes burned with the brightness of the lights, searing green afterimages into his vision. Even through the lenses of his helmet they made him flinch.

Voices flooded the comms as Star Squadron tried to communicate with each other. Their voices were panicked, a few of them even screaming in terror. La'Kri checked his display. It showed a series of blue lights, each one representing a pilot. Normally there would be twenty, but in the brief few seconds of combat eight had already gone dark. Vre'Jinn was speaking now, shouting above the noise.

"Silence all comms and get hold of yourselves, Star Squadron! Remember your training. Pick a target and fire. Our ships seem faster than theirs. They can't track us nearly as well. Use your advantage."

"Kor'Vre!" said a voice. "The enemy is moving past us!"

La'Kri dodged another streak of red light and looked outside the canopy. It was true. The swarm of enemies had almost completely disappeared. They had swept over them and moved on toward the Starlight. "We weren't their target," said La'Kri. "They're going after our ship."

"Follow them!" said Vre'Jinn. "Don't let them take out the-" His words were cut short by a burst of static. Another blue light on the display went dark.

"The Kor'Vre is down!" said La'Hora. "Where did that shot come from?"

"Enemy at position 13!" called Star 7. "He was hiding behind-" Another light went dark.

La'Kri watched in horror as his display began to lose more of its lights. Three went down at once, followed by another two. The shouting started again, but it began to dwindle rapidly as voices were cut off. La'Kri scanned his surroundings as his heart leaped into his throat. Something flew past him, a fighter craft with a blood-red coat of paint. For a brief second he caught a glimpse of a white and black insignia on its tail. "I've got him," he said as he fell in behind the enemy. "La'Hora, help me take this one."

The fighter was fast, much quicker than the others La'Kri had seen in the brief skirmish. It tilted at random, swerving to and fro as it evaded his sensors. The targeting module struggled to get a lock, but the movement was far too erratic for its systems to compensate. La'Kri switched over to manual control, spitting bursts of fire at his quarry. Every shot went wide as it weaved its way between his attacks, almost as if it had sensed his actions. It inverted itself and dove, falling in behind Star 3. With a quick flash of the burning crimson it melted the barracuda's canopy, sending the pilot screaming into space. La'Kri fired again, but just as before the fighter refused to be hit. La'Hora came at it from the side, but it simply rolled over and rose above her fire before casually releasing a blast into Star 9. The hull of Star 9's ship held for a brief moment, then his engines overloaded and the craft erupted in a flash of fire. La'Kri continued to follow, the task requiring every inch of his focus. His forehead and palms were drenched in sweat, his mind nearly breaking under the strain of tracking the wild opponent.

"He's on me!" Cried La'Hora, her voice shrill with terror. "La'Kri, get him off!"

"I'm trying!" La'Kri lined up another shot, letting fly with his ion cannon. The red fighter banked upward, and La'Kri fired ahead of it. It simply rolled away. La'Kri grunted with rage. The maneuvers his enemy was performing were swift and precise, but nearly impossible. The strain of the g-forces would have killed any normal pilot. He felt as though he was chasing down a monster, something supernatural. It fell in behind La'Hora's barracuda, and La'Kri called out to her as n idea leaped into his mind. "Bank left!"

La'Hora slammed her fighter to the left, and La'Kri fired at her tail with his burst cannons. The shot missed her, but the red fighter flew straight into the blast. It ripped a chunk of metal from its hull, but it continued to fly. It ignored the damage and continued to follow its prey. La'Hora was panting frantically now, crying in panic as the demon chased her down. "La'Kri!" she screamed. "Help me! He's going to kill me!"

"Hold on!" La'Kri called back. "I hit him! I just need one more! Hang in there!" He pulled himself behind the other two. La'Hora was maneuvering in any direction she could, struggling to shake the hunter from her tail. It followed her every move flawlessly. The red fighter fired its weapon, and La'Hora's left wing sheared away. She began to spin out of control, and the enemy drew in close for the final kill. La'Kri lined up his shot and fired every weapon his barracuda carried. Missiles streaked in random directions as they flew without a target lock. His burst and ion cannons spat gouts of deadly energy in a virtual wall of destruction. The red fighter moved almost lazily as it bobbed and weaved its way through the fire, as if the attack was nothing more than an annoyance. La'Kri roared with impotent rage as he realized the truth; he was powerless to do anything against the monster. Once the red fighter was clear it casually realigned itself and fired again.

La'Hora gave one final scream before her fighter disappeared with a muted explosion. La'Kri's hands went numb. For the first time in his life he had failed. His first true test of ability had ended with the death of nearly his entire squadron. The red fighter banked away, leaving the shattered remains of Star Squadron behind as it moved to attack the Starlight. Tears stung La'Kri's eyes as he watched it go. He could see the Starlight in the distance. The proud ship that had been his home for his entire life was on fire. The hostile ships had surrounded her, bombers and fighters alike pounding her hull with innumerable attacks. Streaks of white light began to appear around her as the escape pods were deployed. Her crew was abandoning her. The ship was listing now, rolling on its side as it lost control of its engines. The bow broke away with a burst of flame, then the second compartment followed after it. Piece by piece it fell apart. The lights flickered out and went dark as the reactor gave out. Then, all at once, an explosion ripped the segments apart until nothing remained but small pieces of debris. La'Kri saw the fighters leave the ship behind and turn their attention toward the escape pods.

Star 8 spoke up. "What do we do now? Our commander is dead, our ship is gone, and there's only four of us left. We're as good as dead!"

La'Kri clutched his yoke with a deadly grip, threatening to rip it free as anger surged through him. He watched as the lights of the escape pods began to blink out, one by one. "It's not enough that they killed my friends and destroyed my home. Now they want to wipe my brothers and sisters out. I'll tell you what we do now, Star 8. We're going to rescue the Starlight's crew. Everyone form up on me. We're going in."

"Are you insane?" Star 6 demanded. "We'll be eaten alive!"

"We can buy the escape pods enough time to reach the gravity well," La'Kri replied. "Come on. We can't just leave them there."

There was a moment of pause before Star 8 responded. "I'm with you, Star 2. Let's go kill a few of these bastards."

La'Kri nodded and threw power into his engines, lurching forward as he raced to the Starlight's debris field. "What kind of hideous creatures murder a crew as they abandon ship?" he muttered to himself in disbelief. "What are these people?" He squared his shoulders and reactivated his targeting module. He raised the visor on his helmet to wipe the tears from his eyes. There would be time to grieve for La'Hora later. Right now he had a duty to fulfill, and no true Air Caste pilot would ever shirk his duties.


	6. Chapter 6

Admiral Viers watched the destruction of the xeno ship with a contented smile on his face. The bombers had met little resistance, their losses trivial. Now the miniscule vessel was a smoldering field of debris, the first of many. He turned his gaze to the tactical display, studying the hololithic manifestation of the battle. The enemy fleet had halted its advance, choosing instead to form a line between the Imperial ships and the planets beyond. It was a warning, Viers knew, a firm message that if the Imperium wished to take Hydass, they could only do so over the broken hulls of its defenders. It was just the response the admiral had hoped for. Stout defenses were easier to exterminate than running targets. With a casual wave of his hand he addressed the vox operator.

"Recall our fighters. Have them form up around us. Move to 725."

"Admiral," said the tactical officer. "Enemy vessels are firing on us. Multiple small objects inbound, possibly torpedoes."

"Impossible," Viers scoffed. "They can't hope to hit anything at that range. Battle stations."

"Battle stations. Aye, sir," replied the vox operator. Red strobes flashed across the bridge as an alarm began to blare. A servitor mounted to the bridge's ceiling groaned to life as it shouted its prerecorded message.

"Red alert. All hands, man your battle stations. The Emperor protects. Repeat: red alert. All hands, man your battle stations. The Emperor protects."

"Torpedoes closing," shouted tactical. "They are on course. Impact in ten seconds."

"Evasive action," said Viers.

"Too late," replied the helm. "Brace for impact!"

The torpedoes impacted hard. Many simply disappeared as the void shields sent them screeching into the Warp, but the swarm of deadly projectiles was too intense to deflect. The fleet had concentrated its fire, and hundreds of torpedoes slammed into the Hand of Righteousness. Her hull shuddered from the strain as the detonations ripped her open, exposing many of her starboard compartments to the vacuum of space. Bodies sailed out into the eternal night, their lives snuffed out almost instantly. The magazines of cannons 7, 29, and 73 exploded a few seconds later, their vast supply of shells set off by the torpedoes. The entire ship lurched to port, and its prow was dragged off course.

Admiral Viers steadied himself as the bridge finally ceased quaking beneath him. "Damage report!"

The engineering officer checked his displays. "Heavy damage to the entire starboard side, sir. Cannons 3 through 59 and 64 through 80 are offline. Power in engine 5 is dropping rapidly. Estimated casualties are 1,573 crew, 258 guardsmen, and 11 Astartes. Our astropath is injured, but the medicae reports his condition as stable."

"Control systems are failing," said the helmsman. "I need a techpriest up here or we're going to end up spinning in place."

Viers clenched his fists, his nails threatening to draw blood as they dug into his palms. The barrage should not have been possible. The xenos were still far beyond any known ship's maximum firing range, yet they had struck his ship with incredible precision. Imperial blood had been spilled, and the xenos had done so from a position that saved them from retaliation. The sheer cowardice of it made the admiral's blood boil. He slammed his fist against the wall, then pointed theatrically toward the distant fleet. "Signal the fleet!" he called. "Full ahead! Close to firing range and tear them apart! I want those filthy xenos out of my sight!"

-

The Imperial ships turned with a speed that seemed impossible for vessels of their size. They formed up behind the largest, surging forward to engage the T'au fleet. The aliens fired fresh salvos of torpedoes, putting out a wide spread of the deadly weapons like a defensive screen. They inflicted heavy damage on the prows of the Imperial behemoths, but with little else to target the effect was negligible.

The T'au warships began to prepare their close-combat systems. Railguns were charged and burst cannons were spooled up. The distance between the two fleets began to rapidly close, and the Imperials let fly torpedoes of their own. The cogitator-guided missiles flew about erratically, most of them flying wide of their intended targets or detonating harmlessly in space, but the few that landed were massive in size. T'au cruisers and battleships disintegrated under the assault, and as the mighty warships of the Imperium pressed into close range the unleashed their deadly broadsides. The massive guns pounded the xeno vessels, making an absolute mockery of their armor plating. In just a few seconds, thousands of t'au were exterminated as their ships melted away. Their railguns were powerful and their return fire was savage, but the impossible bulk of the Imperials allowed them to shrug off the damage. To call it a battle would be an insult. It was a wholesale slaughter, and only the ships in the rear of the T'au formation were spared. These turned away and ran, desperate to escape the massacre.

-

Kor'O Vior'la Ven'Sha was an experienced commander. He had led his vessel, the Nebula Cloud, through dozens of successful engagements during the latest sphere of expansion. His crew was just as battle-hardened, each member a seasoned warrior in their own right. But as they turned about to flee from the monsters that had wrought ruin on the Kor'vattra, the bridge crew was shouting their reports in a panic.

"Enemy vessels closing!"

"Pulsar is hit! She's going down!"

"We just lost the Snowcap!"

"We're hit! Rear shields down to 18 percent!"

"Casualties reported on all decks!"

O'Ven'Sha pounded the command console, bellowing with a voice that shook the viewscreen. "Enough! Pull yourselves together! We are the Air Caste, not a ragtag militia fleet! Helm, set course to 416. Take us into the asteroid field. The enemy will need to leave formation to chase us. We'll use the rocks as cover and retreat to the far side of the planet."

"Aye, Kor'O," replied the shaken helmsman. He set the ship on a deep dive with a starboard slant, dipping below the Imperial vessels. None of the human ships pulled away to give chase, as if their escape mattered little to the Imperium. They gradually gained distance, and the enemy fleet stopped in a high orbit above the planet. The battle was over. No Imperial ships had been lost, and the damage to the Kor'vattra had been almost absolute. Over twenty proud vessels were now nothing more than floating debris, and the flickering of fire still emanating from the monstrous ships told the Kor'O that the escape pods were being eliminated. Their enemy clearly had no interest in prisoners.

The comms officer brought his attention back to their immediate surroundings. "Kor'O, I'm receiving transmissions from the Starlight's debris field. Some of her fighters are still in the area."

"Put them through," said O'Ven'Sha.

There was a burst of static, and a distorted voice came through the comms. "This is Kor'La T'au Kri, acting commander of Star Squadron."

"Yes, Kor'La, we read you," said O'Ven'Sha. "What is your status?"

"Status is... stranded, Kor'O," replied La'Kri. "Our ship has been lost with all hands. We... we failed to protect her. The enemy destroyed all her escape pods and there wasn't a damn thing we could do to stop them." There was a pause as he took a shuddering breath. "There's only three of us left. We tried to fight them off, but they destroyed all the escape pods and then returned to their ship. We're all that's left. Now we're adrift without enough fuel to reach the rest of the fleet."

"Understood," said the Kor'O. "Lock onto our coordinates and prepare for docking. We will take you aboard."

La'Kri's answer was soft and halting, a defeated tone in his voice. "Aye, Kor'O. I'm... sorry for my failure."

"Your failure is dwarfed by the scope of our own," replied O'Ven'Sha. "Just get yourselves aboard. There will be time for self-reflection later. There was never any hope of triumph here. Survival is a victory all its own."

"I understand," said La'Kri, the edge in his tone stating the opposite. "Star Squadron is on approach."

The comms officer severed the connection with a sigh and shook her head. "That poor pilot..."

O'Ven'Sha glanced sideways at her. "Something on your mind, Kor'Vre?"

Kor'Vre Vior'la Gensa turned to face her commander, showing a look of embarrassment at being caught in her musings. "Apologies, Kor'O. It's just... Starlight was slated for a training exercise today, and he said he was only a Kor'La. He probably isn't a true combat pilot. This may even have been his first battle. He must be feeling truly terrible."

O'Ven'Sha nodded in agreement. "Unfortunate, but not uncommon. I fear many will have a similar experience in the days ahead."

As the Nebula Cloud drew near, La'Kri quietly pulled his fighter into the hangar bay. He said nothing as the crews tethered his craft in place and started their repair work. He sat alone in his seat and pulled his helmet from his head, then examined it closely. After spotting his own reflection in the visor he angrily cast it to the floor of the cockpit, then stared down at his hands. They were still shaking. Tears flowed freely down his cheeks as he stared into his own palms, wondering why, after all his success and with all his gifts, he had been rendered so utterly helpless. He dug his palms into his eyes to wipe the tears away, but they continued to flow. The memory of La'Hora's end, the way she had begged for his help, how she had depended on him to save her, and how he had let her die. The red fighter had truly defeated him, the first defeat he had ever known, and it had cost him his closest friend and companion. His stomach lurched, and he feared that he would vomit. He curled into a fetal position in his seat, shutting his eyes and wishing the world away. Perhaps, he reasoned desperately, when he awoke the nightmare would be over.

When he finally would awaken, the nightmare would only become far more cruel.


	7. Chapter 7

General Gauge watched the xeno fleet withdraw, their inferior ships limping away from the battle. The crusade force now had full and free access to the planet below. Gauge turned to the ship's captain.

"What sort of planet are we looking at?" he asked.

"Scans indicate a minimal population," the captain replied. "It is largely uninhabited, save for concentrated settlements on the fringes of vast agricultural areas. We have detected seven such areas, each with a population of only about three to five thousand. Armed presence is also minimal, likely nothing more than militia to ward off local wildlife. We have detected large deposits of iron, copper, zinc, gold, and nickel in its surface, and its soil appears to be quite fertile. Terrain is mostly flat, open plains."

"A fine world to claim for the Imperium," said Gauge with a smile. "Orbital bombardment would be needlessly wasteful. With so few xenos on the planet, I would say this task requires a scalpel, not a hammer. Contact Admiral Viers."

"Yes, sir," said the vox operator. "Viers is standing by."

The general approached the vox receiver, folding his arms behind his back. "Excellent work on brushing aside the enemy fleet, Admiral. I congratulate you on your victory."

"A conflict devoid of any challenge and, by extension, glory," replied the admiral. "What are your orders, General?"

"Ready seven squads of Astartes for a drop," said Gauge. "One for each of the settlements below."

"Astartes?" echoed Viers. "Forgive me, sir, but isn't that a bit extreme?"

"I have weighed the options," Gauge replied. "Bombardment is needlessly destructive. The Imperial Guard would take too long to deploy. A few squads of Astartes can have the entire planet pacified in less than an hour, which allows us to proceed without giving our enemy time to regroup. Besides, I am certain that the marines aboard your ship are restless after their lengthy travel through the Warp. They will want to avenge the brothers they lost during the battle. I suggest we let them blow off some steam."

"Understood, General," said Viers. "Seven tactical squads of the Scythes of the Emperor will be dropped at once. Viers out."

-

Fio'La Hydass Dresh sat on the edge of the well, staring up into the stars. The skies had changed since the previous evening. An entire section of the stars had disappeared, as if a great shroud had passed between the planet and the worlds beyond. The young Earth Caste boy studied the heavens, wondering why his view had changed. Had the stars simply gone out? If so, what could possibly have enough power to extinguish them?

The voice of his mother came from the house, interrupting his thoughts. "La'Dresh! Come inside. Dinner's getting cold."

"In a moment, Mada," said La'Dresh, not taking his gaze away from the sky. "There are stars going out."

The woman sighed, running her hand through the bright crimson hair that fell to her shoulders. "Right. Well, if you're going to be staying out there, at least make yourself useful. Go over to field nine and make sure the irrigator is primed for the morning. Your father didn't have time to check it."

La'Dresh turned to his mother and pouted. "Why can't he do it now, then? Field 9 is Pada's job."

She put her hands on her hips and smiled wryly. "Because he's eating his dinner, like you're supposed to be doing. Now get going, before I give your portion to Cisha."

La'Dresh swung his legs over the edge of the well and sighed. "Yes, Mada." He dropped down onto his feet and ran off in the direction of the fields.

The village was settling in for the night. As La'Dresh ran past the houses and shops, he could see doors and windows being closed and blinds being pulled. A few people waved to him as he passed by, calling out friendly greetings. La'Dresh smiled and returned the gestures, hiding the deep resentment he felt for being sent out at such an important time.

It wasn't fair. He had been studying the stars for as long as he could remember. Ever since he had first glimpsed the pricks of light in the darkness above he had become obsessed with them, even more so when he began to recognize the patterns in their movements. They were constant and predictable, unlike anything else on Hydass. Not once in all his observations had he seen the stars go out. And of course, tonight was the night his mother had decided to send him all the way out to field 9.

It was a long way to the fields, and it took him almost ten minutes of constant running to reach them. Each crop was segregated into its own allotment of ground, each one uniform in size. A single field was large, over a mile squared, but they were easy to maintain. Drones specifically designed to maintain them darted across the plains, administering fertilizers, spraying pesticides, and scaring away small scavenger creatures. A console at the edge of each field controlled the drones, as well as an automated irrigation system that supplied the plants with water. Tomorrow was the first day of sowing for field 9, and so La'Dresh's father had spent the day preparing the plot to receive the seeds. All that remained was to slightly modify the irrigation system's program to moisten the soil just before planting began. La'Dresh reached the console and hurriedly keyed in the required codes before turning to stare once more at the sky as the irrigators whirred to life behind him.

The blank spot in the starscape was still present, but it seemed somehow larger than before. La'Dresh stared at the sky in confusion and awe. Out here in the fields the lights of the town didn't interfere with his vision. He could see more than just stars. He could see distant star clouds, nebulae, and even an arm of the galaxy in the distance. The sky was not black from out here, but a deep and comforting blue. The white orb of Viss'El, an ice planet in the neighboring sector, was beginning to crest the horizon. The spot where the stars no longer burned was different. It was pure, jet black, leaving a clear silhouette of a dozen long and jagged shapes in the sky. Though clearer than before, La'Dresh could still not make out enough detail to identify them.

A trail of white flame emerged from the black mass, trailing across the sky and leaving a glowing tail in its wake. La'Dresh smiled to himself. Shooting stars were common in the Hydass system as the asteroid field supplied many meteorites, but such beautiful objects had always made him feel a sense of childlike wonder. Several more objects followed the first, spreading out in all directions like the leads of a net. Three seemed to grow larger than the others, and La'Dresh's smile disappeared as he realized that they were drawing nearer. They grew in size, the flames turning orange as the strange objects approached. Finally La'Dresh watched in horror as they landed one by one in the center of town. The ground quaked beneath him, and he nearly lost his balance.

Horrible sounds drifted down to him. Explosions were followed by screams of pain and shrieks of fear. Terrible whirring noises shredded the still, evening air, and distorted demonic voices rose above the carnage, bellowing war cries in a language he could not understand. Fear stabbed at La'Dresh, and he felt a strong desire to run to his mother. He sprinted toward the town as quickly as his young legs could carry him.

The buildings of the town were on fire. The streets were filled with the dismembered dead and dying. Corpses were strewn about the ground in unnatural and defiled positions. Many of the bodies had been ruptured, as if something inside them had exploded. Others had been ripped apart by horrible, jagged blades that tore hunks of flesh and bone away, leaving only a mangled husk of dead meat behind. All ages were mingled among them: the adults, the children, the elderly, and even some of the infants had all been slain. La'Dresh shut his eyes to run past it all, but he tripped on the body of a child. He landed in the mud and lay still, not daring to breathe as a voice spoke nearby.

"Did you hear something, brother? It sounded like footsteps."

"I heard nothing. Come here and help me breach this cellar. The xenos have barricaded themselves inside."

The ground under La'Dresh shook as heavy footfalls passed by him. He let one of his eyelids slip open slightly, and he suppressed a gasp as the flickering light of the fires illuminated a monster. A giant was walking past, its eyes glowing red in the night. It wore strange and terrible armor, colored in coal black and vibrant yellow. On its chest was an emblem depicting a two-headed eagle, and on its shoulder were two crossed scythes. In its hand was a sword that rattled with a strange sort of suppressed energy. It had no proper blade, but bore instead a network of teeth. The demon's head began to turn in La'Dresh's direction, and he played dead. He held his breath and shut his eyes tight, waiting for the creature to move on. The footsteps became more distant, and finally stopped. When La'Dresh looked again, the street was deserted. He picked himself up and moved on.

In the dim light of the flames, dreadful shadows were cast on every wall. He could see the figures moving inside the houses. Every few moments there would be screams, followed by gunfire or the roar of an engine that would silence them. La'Dresh was shuddering like a leaf in the breeze as he crept through the sea of bodies in the streets. In his mind was a single drive, the desire any child would have in his place. More than anything in the galaxy he wanted his mother. He wanted to bury himself in her warm embrace, to hear her shush his cries and make the fear go away. As he staggered through the pathways and ducked into the alleys he had to constantly keep a hand covering his mouth. If he let go, he feared he would begin to weep, and then the monsters would find him.

When he finally turned the corner of his street he was confronted by a horrible sight. The well was gone, and in its place was a strange pyramid-shaped structure. The walls were gone, revealing a hollow interior. Even from a distance, La'Dresh could feel intense heat radiating from it. This must have been what had fallen from space. Beyond the device he could see his house. It was not on fire like the others, but there were two of the giants already inside. Their backs were turned, and one seemed to be digging through Cisha's crib against the far wall. It stood upright after a moment, holding La'Dresh's infant sister aloft by one of her legs. Cisha screamed in a confused panic, her voice biting with the pain the monster's iron grip was causing her. It made a disgusted sound and turned to its companion.

"Vile beasts. Even their offspring are hideous and disfigured."

"Their very appearance is an abomination," the other agreed. "Kill it, so that I no longer have to look upon it."

The first demon raised a pistol and pressed the muzzle against Cisha's skull. It fired with a percussive sound that nearly deafened La'Dresh, and little Cisha disappeared in a cloud of blood. La'Dresh could no longer hold in his fear. He screamed with a choked wail, running toward the door as tears blinded him.

"No!" he cried. "Cisha! Mada! Help us! MADAAAAAA!"

The monster turned, dropping Cisha's severed leg. With an almost lazy motion it shot La'Dresh through chest. He collapsed onto his back, gasping for air as his lungs were shredded by the uncaring punch of the bolt pistol's detonation. Through eyes soaked with tears he stared up at the sky, and just for a moment he thought all the stars were going out. He felt a new pang of fear course through him as he realized that it was not the stars, but his own vision that was fading into blackness. He gave a final choking cry for his mother, but it was lost as he gurgled in his own blood. The last thing he saw was a pair of glowing red eyes staring down at him, and the terrible distorted voice saying something in a strange and terrifying language.

"May the darkest of hells swallow you whole, foul xeno," it said. "The galaxy has no place for your filth."


	8. Chapter 8

The situation room of the Penumbra buzzed with panicked activity. The various admirals of the Air Caste had congregated there to discuss the situation at Hydass, and the report of the destruction had led to a shouting match. Opinions and predictions overlapped in a hideous deluge of noise.

"We lost 70% of the Kor'vattra. If they can destroy our fleet so easily then what chance have we?"

"An entire world has been lost, and we have no hope of regaining control. We needed those resources!"

"Rebuild the fleet? Are you mad? The enemy will have overrun us by the time we get more ships built, and when we do they will be just as ineffective as the ones they are replacing!"

"If they reach our core worlds, we will have nothing with which to repel their ships. Nothing!"

"We don't even know what their ground force capability is. If their ships are so superior then imagine what their troops must be like!"

"We have to evacuate all planets in the sector. We can rebuild elsewhere."

"Evacuate? With what fleet? We'll be hard pressed just to survive!"

El'Envo slammed his fist down on the table and shouted above the din. "ENOUGH! You are Air Caste officers! Pull yourselves together!" Total silence fell immediately. The air of desperation had not changed, but no one dared question the direct order of an Ethereal, let alone defy it. El'Envo nodded in satisfaction. "Right. Now, let's get some hard cold data before we go bouncing off the walls. Kor'O Gesha Dil'Pha'Ri, how many vessels currently comprise the Kor'vattra?"

"Nineteen, Aun'El," he replied. "Plus the five that escaped Hydass. All told, we have twenty-four."

El'Envo frowned. It was a dismally small number, a mere fraction of their fleet's former glory. He turned to the Kor'O on his left. "Kor'O Vior'La Ven'Sha, you were at Hydass. I want a tactical analysis devoid of hyperbole."

O'Ven'Sha rose from his seat and bowed to the Ethereal before replying. "The Gue'la vessels are superior in nearly every respect. Saying so is not hyperbolic, just redundant. They are heavily armed, armored, and shielded. They move much more quickly and are far larger. However, based upon my reflections on the battle I have drawn some conclusions. In the opening stages we delivered a torpedo bombardment at medium range. Our focused fire did not destroy the enemy ship, but appeared to heavily damage it. Their response was a retaliatory volley of devastating, but horribly inaccurate torpedoes. They then closed to point-blank range, whereupon they tore us apart with their hull-mounted cannons and energy weapons. My conclusion is that the Gue'la lack ranged capabilities. There is our sole advantage."

El'Envo ran a thoughtful finger across his lips. "And what do you suggest, going forward?"

"I suggest that we abandon any thought of close engagements," replied O'Ven'Sha. "We must hold them at maximum range, bombarding them with torpedoes where they cannot strike back. Of course, their next logical step would be to hit us with their fighter squadrons. One such force destroyed the Starlight in less than two minutes. They are incredibly deadly, but according to our surviving pilots Gue'la fighters are slower and less maneuverable than ours. Large numbers of small attack craft will be needed to protect what remains of the Kor'vattra."

El'Envo folded his hands in front of him, letting the tension in the room rise before giving his answer. It was a cold, but effective technique every Ethereal knew. T'au expect efficiency by their very nature. Depriving them of it with a brief pause kept them uneasy and made them less sure of themselves. It was handy for controlling a room. "Very well," he said. "I shall pass orders along to the Earth Caste. They will begin constructing your reinforcements. I want every ship to take on an extra cadre of them and set them to work on modifying your weapon systems in the meantime. Give them full access, let their imaginations reign free. One of them might work up something clever." He rose from his seat and clasped his hands behind his back. "You will take Kor'O Vior'la Ven'Sha's advice and adapt your combat strategies and make a stand at Sy'l'kell. Fire Caste hunter cadres are already preparing their defenses."

There was a general murmur of agreement, and O'Ven'Sha bowed low. "We will make it so."

"Air Caste," said El'Envo, "Sy'l'kell is absolutely vital. It lies between Hydass and the core worlds. If the Gue'la wish to reach them, then they must first pass through. We will establish ourselves as the dominant force once more, and then force them to negotiate. Then we shall see what it is that this so-called Imperium seeks. Dismissed."

-

Vre'Gensa felt strange as she floated down the corridors of the Nebula Cloud's lower decks. She was nearing the general crew quarters, a place where the Air and Earth Castes often intermingled. In her career she had spent nearly all of her time on or near the bridge, only delving into the deeper parts of the ship on special errands. It was a rare and thrilling experience to see and entirely new perspective on life aboard the vessel. The strange body shapes of the Earth Caste that drifted by her, each one absorbed in reading a datapad or other such device, were equal parts unnerving and mesmerizing. 

The Air Caste specialists and general crew members offered polite greetings, and Vre'Gensa felt a few admiring stares creep across her skin. Females from the upper decks tended to be more refined, well-polished, and submissive than the ones that dwelled among the lower ranks, and she was acutely aware that to many of the males about her she would be considered quite a prize. A woman of a different species might have felt nervous as the hungry leering of deprived men drifted over them, but even the most lecherous of Air Caste wouldn't dare even approach her. Her rank might have been lower than many around her, but her station was far higher. The consequences for interfering with a member of the bridge crew were severe, usually involving a one-way trip out the nearest airlock. As a result, Vre'Gensa had the luxury of enjoying the attention, and even caught herself giving a few stares of her own.

The handle track deposited her at her destination within a few short minutes. According to the ship's computer, Kor'La T'au Kri was in the simulator room. Vre'Gensa had pulled up his personnel file to get a look at his face, but she did not see him among the various pilots scattered around the dimly lit space. The display in the room's center showed the current running simulation, and the blasts of light and color caught her eye. Two fighters swirled around one another, arcing in crazed circles as they fought for dominance. A small crowd had gathered near the screen to watch the battle, cheering excitedly and placing bets on the potential winner. Vre'Gensa approached the mob and tapped one of the pilots on the shoulder.

"Excuse me," she said. "I'm looking for Kor'La T'au Kri. Do you know where he is?"

"Are you joking? What kind of question-?" He cut himself off as he turned and saw who was addressing him. His blue face paled slightly, then turned a vibrant purple as he blushed. "Ah... apologies, Kor'Vre. I didn't see... uh... L-la'Kri is over there." He pointed to one of a pair of sim pods against the far wall. One was closed but otherwise deserted, the other had a lengthy queue of pilots formed behind it, waiting their turns. "He's been in there for almost two days straight. Hasn't even come out to eat, drink, or rest. Says he won't stop until he overcomes his failure, whatever that means."

Vre'Gensa felt pity stab at her heart. She had heard the pain in La'Kri's voice two days ago when they had pulled him from the Starlight's debris field, but she had never imagined that he would resort to self abuse. "Can't somebody order him out?"

The pilot shrugged. "We reported it, but the officers thought it would be a good opportunity to practice our skills. None of us have beaten him, yet, so we keep training until we win. Once he finally breaks and loses, Kor'Vre Vior'la Hap'Tun will order him to return to his quarters."

"Brutes," Vre'Gensa scoffed. "I need to speak with him. Tell your superior that he will need to find a new training method."

The pilot shrugged again. "Whatever you say, Kor'Vre. I'll tell her, but she won't like it."

"Then she can file a complaint," said Vre'Gensa as she pushed herself toward the sim pods. "I'll be certain not to lose it amidst all the other paperwork I have to file today." She drifted over to the capsule and tapped the control panel. Text appeared, requesting her authorization to interrupt the current simulation. She input a twelve digit code, and the simulator shut itself down. A chorus of disappointed groans rose up around the room, and the simulator door slid open.

Vre'Gensa clapped a hand over her mouth as she saw La'Kri for the first time. He was drenched in sweat and wheezing, his slender frame rapidly losing its mass from a lack of the Air Caste's delicately balanced rations. He stared straight forward at the blank screens, as if not fully realizing what had happened. He looked at Vre'Gensa with a thousand mile gaze that didn't seem to truly see her. He smelled rank, and the stench wafting out of the pod made the Kor'Vre gag. It was a truly pathetic sight, a broken man in the process of becoming a machine.

"The simulator stopped," said La'Kri in a matter-of-fact tone.

Vre'Gensa came back to her sense and nodded. "I stopped it," she said. "I have news for you, Kor'La."

"Oh." La'Kri turned back toward the empty screens.

Vre'Gensa took a moment to gather herself and cleared her throat. "The Ethereals have ordered an increase in combat pilots. All cadets are being pressed into active duty. Due to the skills listed in your personnel file and your actions during the engagement at Hydass, command of Star Squadron has been given to you. As of now, you are to be known as Kor'Vre T'au Kri. Congratulations on your field promotion."

La'Kri blinked, visibly confused. "I'm... being promoted? But... I haven't passed the trials."

"The Kor'O has ruled that surviving Hydass is enough to prove your worth to us," said Vre'Gensa.

Vre'Kri pulled himself from the sim pod. As he removed his weakened body he lost his grip and sailed away toward the center of the room. Vre'Gensa pushed herself after him, wrapped an arm around his waist, and used her momentum to carry them to the opposite wall. Vre'Kri nodded his thanks.

"With all due respect, Kor'Vre, I don't believe I am fit to command a squadron," he said.

"You don't have much choice," Vre'Gensa replied. "The Kor'O appointed you himself."

"The last time I went into battle, nearly everyone I ever knew wound up dead." Vre'Kri glared at her, his voice rising and drawing the attention of others around the room. "They're all dead and I couldn't do a damned thing to help them. Now you want to give me even more to look after? I'm not capable enough to lead anyone into battle!"

Vre'Gensa shrank back from his tirade, his words striking her like a lash. "You're undefeated in the simulations, Vre'Kri. No one can best you."

"Someone already has!" Vre'Kri snapped. "He beat me in the one place that really matters. Sure, I can beat pilot after pilot here, but none of these people are the ones the Air Caste wants me to fight, are they?" He shook his head. "Don't you people get it? We can't hope to defeat these monsters! We're doomed!"

Vre'Gensa raised her arm and slapped Vre'Kri across the face with all her strength. The blow sent him flying to the other side of the room. Vre'Gensa began to yell back at him, her patience exhausted. "Who the hell are you? You're not the pilot your Kor'O said you were. I read through your file and all I could see were glowing recommendations and ceaseless praise. Now I finally meet you and what do I find? A tau who has given up after one defeat! I know you lost friends at Hydass. Everyone here did. Nobody could have predicted what we would be facing. But no one else here has given up, just you! Now is not the time for cowardice. Defeat is what makes us stronger. If you can't understand that, then you never had any place in the Air Caste!" She turned away and moved toward the door, taking a moment to glance over her shoulder. "You're an officer now, Vre'Kri. People will look for you to be their example. Act like a tau, or your squadron truly will be doomed." She started to exit when she heard him call out behind her.

"Kor'Vre, wait!" Vre'Kri came chasing after her, following her into the hall. He still looked pitiful, but there was a new life behind his eyes. "I apologize. I was out of line."

"You certainly were," said Vre'Gensa. "Do you usually raise your voice at your betters?"

"No," he replied. "I lost control of myself. I didn't realize how selfish I was being." He grinned sheepishly, and without any hint of actual happiness. "I suppose I needed to be struck. I request your forgiveness."

Vre'Gensa sighed. "No need. I lost my temper as well. These are frightening times for everyone, and you've seen the worst of it. I should have been more understanding." She looked over his thin body, its details accentuated by his pilot suit. "You should get some food, Vre'Kri. A pilot must keep up his strength."

Vre'Kri nodded. "Actually, I think I'll wash myself first. Can't lead tau into battle smelling like this." He took one of the handles and began to move along the hallway, speaking over his shoulder. "I meant what I said, Kor'Vre. We are still doomed, but I won't be the one who let the Gue'la win without a fight. Thank you for bringing me back."


	9. Chapter 9

Baron Victor Von Geissman was a man of few words. In his mind, actions spoke louder. Few things drove the former Groknidan noble nearer to outright rage as needless prattling. So as he stood listening to the techpriest ramble endlessly about the inner workings of his fury interceptor, he clenched his fists to avoid an outburst.

"Circuits seven through thirty-three have all suffered severe burnout and require replacement," said the priest through his monotonous distorted vocalizer. "Cogitator nine has failed and requires replacement. Cannon two's secondary power conduit is overdue for replacement and requires replacement. Engine one's primary fuel tank is leaking and requires replacement. Armor plates A12 and C33 have been dislodged and require replacement. Primary fire control is point zero-zero-zero one-three-seven-four degrees out of alignment and requires recalibration."

"I didn't ask for a full technical readout," the Baron snapped. "Just give me an estimate as to your completion time."

"Calculating..." The priest tilted his head, or at least the mass of mismatched steel and copper bits that resembled a head, as he let his augmented brain run the numbers. "Precise prediction is impossible," he replied. "Variables in supply arrival time, labor reliability, and appearance of new damages cannot be quantified. There are other considerations as well, such as-"

"Forget it," said the Baron, turning away. "Just notify me when it's void-worthy again."

"Hold a moment, please."

Geissman sighed, his fists clenching even tighter. "What now?"

A metal tendril slithered out from a gap in the techpriest's crimson robes. A claw affixed to its end held a slip of paper. "I received this from the quartermaster two hours ago. Due to the fleet's inability to resupply, servitors are no longer replaceable. As such, if one of your servitors is critically damaged, you will need to make do with biological crew members."

Geissman snatched the note from the priest and read it quickly, then tossed it aside in disgust. "They wish to hamstring my capabilities? Human crews only slow the process down. I need those servitors."

"Might I make a suggestion?" asked the priest.

The Baron sighed and removed his cap, wiping sweat from his face with the white scarf draped lazily across his shoulders. "Why not?"

"If your servitors remain undamaged, they will not need replacement. Simply stop being hit."

Geissman's eyes narrowed as he debated ripping the priest's skull from his shoulders. For a moment he struggled with the temptation, but ultimately swallowed the urge. "Thank you," he growled through gritted teeth. "I'll keep that in mind." He turned on his heel and marched away, deciding that the satisfaction of destroying the machinophile wasn't worth the demerits. He paused for a moment as he passed by his fighter's tail. The bold blood-red paint that decorated it had recently been redone, and it was a stunning sight. His family crest, a black and white stylized cross, was an ancient symbol from the dark days of early Terra. It was a mark of pride, and his family's prestige had allowed him a certain amount of free reign over the design of his interceptor. He had chosen to display the crest proudly on the fuselage and tail of his voidcraft, a warning to all that the last of the Geissmans had arrived, and that they did not take prisoners.

The Baron's musings were interrupted by the sound of slow, sarcastic clapping. He turned around with narrowed eyes, scowling at the fool who would dare to mock him, only to discover that the source of the sound was none other than an Astartes. Brother Trajan Beris was still clad in his deep blue power armor, the proud insignia of the Ultramarines on his chest stained with purple blood. He approached with a jeering smile, but it bore genuine mirth.

"Bravo, Baron," he said. "You bravely fought off a swarm of xenos gnats today. I trust the job of slaughtering hundreds of defenseless aliens wasn't too taxing?"

"You're one to talk," Geissman shot back, hiding his smile from his friend. "At least my enemies were capable of shooting back. Still, I'm glad to see that you survived your glorious crusade."

"Glorious?" The joking manner deserted Trajan as true frustration came forward. "Don't speak to me of glory. My Emperor-gifted abilities are utterly wasted on such lowly prey. I was bred for battle, not slaughter. Leave such things to the Guard, the Space Wolves, or some other sect that relishes in blood for blood's own sake. Perhaps the Scythes enjoyed themselves, but we Ultramarines are above such primitive pleasures. Our 'battle' was a mockery, devoid of any challenge, adversity, and above all, glory."

"Purging the galaxy of xenos taint is glorious enough on its own, is it not?" said Geissman.

"So say the chaplains," Trajan replied. "Come on, let's have it then. What's your kill count?"

"Hardly a fair contest today," said the Baron, crossing his arms. "Sadly, I only got twenty-five. One of the xeno pilots had some moderate skill. I couldn't seem to get a clear shot on him, and I let him distract me."

"Distractions?" Trajan raised an amused eyebrow. "That's unlike you, Geissman."

The Baron shrugged. "He scored a hit on me. It's been so insufferably long since I've had even a mild challenge that I couldn't resist. The anthro-cogitator took care of the smaller foes, but he required personal attention. Bastard gave me the slip, in the end. I was so close to shooting him down, too."

"A shame indeed," said Trajan with a nod. "Perhaps there is fight in these xenos after all."

Geissman patted the marine's arm, an act that required him to reach upward due to Trajan's incredible size. "There there, Brother. You'll have your glorious battle soon enough."

Trajan smiled as he gently swatted the Baron's hand away. "How dare you patronize me?"

Geissman chuckled. "You make it remarkably easy." He frowned as his stomach gurgled loudly. "I haven't eaten in forty-eight hours. Which mess hall shall we raid, noble Astartes?"

Trajan chuckled. "I imagine you'll want the same one as before. I seem to recall you staring hungrily at some woman from the bridge crew there, so you'll want to see if she returns."

The Baron shrugged. "A man can hope, can't he? Come on, let's find some vittles before your sergeant finds you." He set off toward the hangar's nearest exit.

Trajan followed after him, his long steps allowing him to catch up without breaking a casual stride. "You know, she might not even be interested."

"Oh, please," said Geissman. "I'm Baron Victor Von Geissman. I keep company with space marines. What could possibly be more interesting to a woman?"

Trajan sighed. "It's a sad thing. I am not bound to the same drive as you, and I have no motivation to pursue them, yet I still have a much firmer grasp on the minds of women than you do."

-

Shas'Vre Sy'l'kell Odess woke from his slumber to someone knocking on the hatch of his battlesuit. He let his groggy eyes slip open for a moment, and the machine sense his awakening. Displays blinked to life all around him, stabbing into his vision with harsh light. He winced and fumbled for the suit's external audio system, and flipped the switch. "Who is it?" he croaked.

"It's La'Rushi, Shas'Vre," came the reply, slightly distorted by the pilot's ear implants. "Sorry to disturb you, but I think you should see this. Check your primary datafeed."

Vre'Odess groaned as he sat up. The pilot's seat of an XV-8 suit was meant for battle, not for slumber. Lying in an odd position every night had done horrible things to his spine over the years, and it ached horribly. "Shel'lia," he said to his suit's onboard AI, "pull up the primary datafeed."

"Processing..." replied a smooth, feminine voice. "Link established. Downloading latest dispatch. Please standby... Download complete."

"What's the news, Shel'lia?" asked the pilot.

"The Kor'vattra has engaged enemy forces at Hydass," the AI replied. "The fleet proved inadequate to repel the invaders. They have taken the system and are proceeding here."

Vre'Odess blinked twice and shook his head quickly. "Am I hearing that correctly?"

"I couldn't believe it either," said La'Rushi. "But it's all over the camp now. Some of them are even saying that these new enemies have destroyed an entire planet."

"Thank you, La'Rushi," said Vre'Odess. "Return to your cadre. Oh, and Shas'La? Try and keep the gossip down until we actually know something."

"Yes, Shas'Vre," said La'Rushi. "Right away."

Vre'Odess rubbed at his temples as he forced himself to wake up completely. "Shel'lia, what are our orders?"

"No new orders have been issued as of yet," said the machine. "Currently we are to standby at our current position. However, given this report, I predict that new orders will be issued within the next three hours."

"And their contents?"

"Most likely, we will be mobilized and made ready for the defence of Sy'l'kell."

Vre'Odess leaned back in his seat. His mind was racing. Only a few hours ago he had gone to sleep in peace. He was a nobody, a pilot on a fringe planet. His posting had been drab and boring, a place away from the conquests of the rest of the Fire Caste. Sy'l'kell was an agricultural world, a place filled with farmers and fields. Only a light garrison of troops defended the planet, and trouble was never expected to reach it. "We are being reinforced, right?" he asked.

"Unknown," said Shel'lia. "Given current reports on troop deployments, my prediction is... inconclusive."

Vre'Odess's heart sank. "Do we even know what we're up against? How many of them are there? What do they look like? What are they armed with?"

"Negative, unknown, unknown, and unknown," replied the AI.

"I need air." Vre'Odess slapped the hatch release switch and stepped out into the morning sunlight. He had set his battlesuit down in an open field of grass, a space between rows of grain plants. The air was cool and a thin layer of mist blanketed the ground. His boots sloshed about in the dew and the mud, and he found it difficult to get any traction. He placed his hands on his knees and bent double, gasping in the fresh air.

"Your heart rate has accelerated," said Shel'lia. "Are you alright?"

"Just... taking it all in," said Vre'Odess. "I'm fine. I think... I think I'll join the rest of the cadre for breakfast."

"Understood," replied the AI. "Don't be gone too long, Shas'Vre."

"No promises," said the pilot. He walked away, staggering his way toward the camp. His stomach churned inside him and he had no appetite, but an air of destiny had settled over his soul. He and his men were a part of a very small defensive force, little more than a militia, and yet they were expected to fight an alien invasion that had already swept aside the mighty Kor'vattra. His footsteps felt heavy, and his hands were numb. He felt himself begin to shiver, but whether it was nerves or the morning cold that caused it he could not say. One thing was certain in his mind. He knew that this might be his last chance to see his men face to face, and he would savor it as much as he could.


	10. Chapter 10

Vre'Kri slammed his throttle forward, pushing the simulated barracuda to its limit. The engine squealed in protest, but nonetheless obeyed. His opponent was lagging behind, caught off guard by the sudden burst of speed as Vre'Kri's fighter surged ahead and twisted away. Vre'Kri swung around, cutting back on the throttle to twist himself quickly around, then thrust it forward again. Even with his enemy's dogged attempts to evade, the more experienced pilot quickly settled into a firing position. Vre'Kri fired a blast of burst cannon fire, then cut the simulation.

"Dead," he called. He heard his opponent growl in frustration from the neighboring pod, and he opened the hatch and pulled himself free.

The man who had been fighting him emerged from his own pod, his eyes downcast. He was Kor'La Vior'la Haz, one of the five pilots Vre'Kri was now expected to train and lead into battle. The other four were floating nervously against the wall, chatting idly with one another. Vre'Kri folded his arms and stared La'Haz down, disappointment clear in his tone.

"Dead," he repeated. "That's six times you've died today, Kor'La. How many lives do you think you have?"

La'Haz hesitated. He glanced up at Vre'Kri, and after meeting his gaze realized that he was waiting for an answer. "I... I don't know, Kor'Vre."

"You don't know?" Vre'Kri slammed a hand on the sim-pod's hatch, the sudden noise startling his subordinate. "Allow me to fill you in, then. You have one life, Kor'La. One! Once it's gone, it's gone. There are no rematches in space. Do you understand me?"

"Yes, Kor'Vre."

"Look at you." Vre'Kri looked the cadet up and down with visible disdain. "You're an embarrassment to the Air Caste. I've met Fire Warriors that fly better than you."

Anger flashed across La'Haz's face, despite his attempts to hide it. The insult had cut deep, and his fists clenched as he replied. "Yes, Kor'Vre. I have no excuse."

Vre'Kri noticed the tension in the pilot and sneered. "Oh, I'm sorry. Did my words make you upset? Are you angry with me now? Anger is a privilege, Kor'La. It is not an emotion that you have the luxury of feeling. If you wish to be angry with me, then earn it by beating me."

"I can't beat you!" snapped La'Haz. As soon as the words left his lips he regretted it. His heart raced as he waited for the screaming reply from his superior, but to his surprise it never came. Instead, Vre'Kri's voice went deathly soft.

"You can't? And why is that?"

"You're a better pilot, Kor'Vre," answered La'Haz. "You fight like a demon. You have more experience. I am still learning. I don't have a chance against you."

"Is that all?"

La'Haz blinked in surprise. Vre'Kri was being cryptic. What was he after? The cadet glanced around the room. Their discussion had drawn the attention of the rest of Star Squadron, and they had all begun to close in to better hear what was being said. "Yes," said La'Haz. "That's all."

"You're right," said Vre'Kri, the edge melting away from his voice. "You're absolutely right. In these simulated battles I'm undefeated. No one in my entire career has ever managed to shoot me down. I should be the best of the best, and under ordinary circumstances I would never expect you to win. But these aren't ordinary circumstances. We are at war with an enemy the likes of which we have never seen." He turned away, clasping his hands behind his back. "They move like lightning, and they strike just as hard. They can wipe out entire squadrons with a single man. Before this foe, even my abilities were nothing. I was bested by them just as easily as I bested you." His voice began to rise in intensity, turning darker and louder as he continued. "If you want to stand a chance against them, then you're going to need to learn how to do the impossible, how to defeat the odds. You're going to need to find a way to beat the unbeatable. Forget what you were taught in Basic; none of it applies out there. Think outside the box, fight dirty, and above all find a way to win!" He whirled back around, shouting into La'Haz's face. "Those alien bastards killed everyone I ever cared about! They slaughtered my comrades and butchered my ship, and all I could do was watch! If you can't best me, then you won't last a minute out there! Now, look at me! I've got every reason to quit! I've been humiliated, cast down off my pedestal. I've felt everything you're feeling right now and I've felt it a hundred times worse! Do you see me giving up?"

"N-no, Kor'Vre." Stammered La'Haz. "I don't."

"Damn right, you don't!" shouted Vre'Kri. "That's because Star Squadron doesn't give up! We fight on even when it's impossible, even when everyone else has quit! There's no room for despair in my unit! Do you understand me?"

"Yes, Kor'Vre!"

"Are you going to give up?"

"No, Kor'Vre!"

Vre'Kri smiled. "Then get back in the sim-pod and let's do another round! You're going to keep fighting me until you win! Got that?"

La'Haz returned the smile, eagerly hopping back into his pod with a salute. "Got it, Kor'Vre."

Vre'Kri turned his attention to the other cadets. "What are you all staring at? I don't want to see any laughing out of any of you. As soon as he's done, you're up next!"

Vre'Gensa watched it all unfold from the entryway, and couldn't help but smile. It had been almost two weeks since the battle of Hydass. The shattered remains of the Kor'vattra had assembled a defense surrounding Sy'l'kell's orbital defense station, and now everyone was waiting for the enemy to appear. The days of preparation had left everyone in the fleet with an almost unbearable amount of tension. Many aboard were on the verge of mental breakdowns as the threat of the terrible monsters from beyond the void loomed over every mind. With all the short fuses among the crew, Vre'Gensa was pleased to see Vre'Kri handling his new command so well.

It was only a few minutes further before the two pilots emerged from their pods once again. Vre'Kri nodded to La'Haz, then to the others. "Right. Take a break. La'Nosa, I want you to load up in twenty minutes with La'Cetu so the both of you can practice your evasive maneuvers. I'll be back in an hour to test both of you, so make sure you're prepared."

"Yes, Kor'Vre," answered a young female cadet. "Where will you be?"

"I'm going to get my rations," said Vre'Kri. "Pilots need to keep their strength up, after all." He turned from his cadets and moved toward the entryway, spotting Vre'Gensa as he drifted across the room. "Ah, Kor'Vre," he said with a respectful bow of his head. "I did not know you were here."

"I came to see how command has been treating you," Vre'Gensa replied. "You seem to have a natural gift for leadership."

"Natural gifts," Vre'Kri echoed, a distantly sorrowful look in his eyes as he gazed beyond her. "It seems I have a natural gift for almost everything I try, doesn't it? Too bad it isn't enough on its own." He ran a hand across the top of his hairless head and flinched.

"Are you alright?" asked Vre'Gensa.

"I'm fine. It's just... still a bit tender up there. I used to have hair, but... I ripped it out after Hydass."

The way he had said it was so matter-of-fact and cold that it shocked Vre'Gensa. To him it seemed as if he had just mentioned scratching an itch or removing a scab. She felt pity stirring in the bottom of her chest, and she reached out a hand to touch his shoulder. "You blame yourself for what happened."

Vre'Kri shrugged. "How can I not? I'm that rising star, the prodigy who never fails. All my life everyone I ever met has expected me to meet with nothing but success. And here in the sim room..." He paused to sweep his hand at their surroundings and his squadron of cadets. "Here I can meet those expectations. But out there in the real world, against a true threat?" He stopped short and touched his head again, this time ignoring the pain. 

Vre'Gensa was silent, unsure of how to respond. After several uncomfortable moments Vre'Kri gave a light chuckle and continued. 

"You know I had a lover in Star Squadron. She was always at my side, cutting down my ego, keeping me in check. But do you know the last thing she said to me?"

Vre'Gensa shook her head. "What did she say?"

"She begged me to save her," said Vre'Kri. He began to laugh, a strange manic sound somewhere between cackling and wheezing. "It's ironic, isn't it? She always told me not to think too much of myself, to remember my limits and not push myself too hard, but when the chits were down and it really mattered what did she do? The same thing everyone else did. 'Save the day, Kor'La T'au Kri! Save us all!' She told me to win, just like before. Because I always faashing win, don't I?!" He nearly shouted the last phrase, his foul curse word hanging in the air and drawing the attention of the cadets, who stared at him with shocked expressions. Vre'Kri waved them away and hung his head. "I'm sorry. That was uncalled for."

Vre'Gensa gave his arm a tug. The wait for the coming battle was affecting him more than she had originally thought. "Come on. Let's get you fed. It doesn't look good to have a breakdown in front of your pilots. Some food will do you good."

"Yeah." He nodded his agreement, but did not appear convinced. "Yeah, maybe you're right."

-

Corporal Fergus McNeil had always despised the chapel hour. It was a dry, monotonous affair, one that the Dragoons had rarely ever participated in. However, such mundane practices were as precious as oxygen to the Astartes, and the space marines had unofficially mandated that every man and woman in the crusade was to participate. The chaplain would drone on endlessly, pontificating in High Gothic for hours at a time. Such a thing was tolerable for the Astartes, whose genetic enhancements granted them millennia to waste in ceaseless prayer and worship. The Dragoons, however, were not privy to such a luxury, and found the lengthy services to be wholly unnecessary and devoid of spiritual enrichment. The Astartes had no real right to demand attendance of the Dragoons, however, one did not dare contradict the lumbering giants. Unless, of course, one happened to be Fergus McNeil.

The corporal was seated atop a crate of spare lasguns located in the secluded rear section of a cargo bay. It was a place of servitors and servo skulls, and the mindless subhuman drones paid him no mind as they conducted their programmed tasks. The marines never came into this section, and they were unlikely to notice that anyone was missing from the ceremonies. Their checks for those shirking their worship duties rarely extended beyond the crew quarters. Fergus held a stringed instrument in his lap, cradling it in his arms like a child. He strummed without restraint, knowing that any sound he made wouldn't travel beyond the heavy metal doors that sealed the bay. A small crowd sat on the floor about him, listening intently as he sang an ancient human song his grandfather had sung to him as a child.

"It's a sin, my darlin' how I love you,  
Because I know our love can never be.  
It's a sin to keep this memory of you,  
When silence proves that you've forgotten me.

The dream I built for us has tumbled,  
Each promise broken like my heart.  
It's a sin, my darlin' how I love you,  
So much in love, and yet so far apart."

As Fergus played through the meandering interlude, he caught movement out of the corner of his eye. He glanced up to see Commissar Gwendolyn Ortega appear around the corner of the crates. He caught her gaze, her single dark eye and steel eyepatch boring into his skin. Everything about her appearance was fierce and savage, and she looked as if she was out for blood. Fergus nearly dropped his instrument and snapped to attention, but Ortega shook her head with an even fiercer glare. She had said nothing, and yet her meaning was instantly understandable; he was to play on. Fergus obeyed the silent order, thinking quickly and adapting the pause in his playing into a false syncopation that earned him a few grins from his audience. He sang the final verse, fighting to keep the nervous warble out of his voice.

"It's a sin to hide behind this heartache,  
To make believe that I've found someone new.  
It's a sin to say that I don't miss you,  
When people know I'm still in love with you.

I'm sure you're happy with another  
Who shares a love I couldn't win.  
Why pretend that I can live without you,  
When deep inside I know that it's a sin?"

As the final chords drifted off into nothingness, the commissar began to applaud loudly and slowly from the back. All eyes turned to see her standing behind the crowd, a stern expression on her face as she surveyed the troops. Everyone leaped to attention. Jackets were hastily buttoned, caps were thrown onto heads, and a flirtatious couple that had snuck off into a corner emerged still pulling up their trousers. The troops shuffled into formation, and stood ready for inspection. Standing at his perch high above the action, Fergus was unsure of what to do. He had climbed up a network of containers to reach his spot, and navigating his way back down without injury would cost a great deal more time than he could afford. Instead he awkwardly saluted from where he was, shouldering his instrument like a lasgun.

Commissar Ortega strutted her way along the line of troops, looking each man and woman over from head to toe. She stopped in front of one guardsman who looked ready to faint, stared into his eyes for several seconds, then in the blink of an eye her hands shot out. The man flinched as she took hold of his cap, deftly straightened it, then moved on.

"Right," said the commissar. "Who wants to explain all this?" There was silence. Ortega let the pause hang in the air, dragging out the tension. After an entire minute she spoke again, more sharply this time. "I expect an answer, and I am tempted to begin firing into the formation until I get one." Still no one answered, though now the soldiers had begun to sneak nervous glances at one another. Ortega stopped in front of Fergus's crate and looked up at him. "No volunteers? Very well. You, McNeil, is it?"

"Yes, ma'am," Fergus responded, fighting back the quiver in his throat.

"Care to explain?" asked the commissar.

"Ah..." Fergus stared straight ahead, not daring to look her in the eye. "Well... what would you like explained, Commissar?"

"This!" she replied calmly, spreading her arms to indicate the formation. "You've skipped the daily chapel service, all of you! We stand here on the eve of battle, ready to be deployed on the front lines of combat tomorrow, and yet I do not hear a single prayer to the Emperor. Now, I assume that the men under my command are not heretics, nor are they too lazy to fulfill the duties the Astartes have given them. So what is the explanation? If you cannot give me an alternative, I must be forced to go with the original."

"Ah... yes, that..." Fergus fought for words, sweat beading on his forehead and slickening his palms. "Well... We... that is, the men..." He glanced at the soldiers. They were all terrified. Such an offense might seem minor, but a commissar could choose to summarily execute an entire platoon for whatever reason they decided to come up with. Indeed, whole battalions had been wiped out for less. Ortega knew the explanation. She was simply toying with them, like a Ghastronos tiger with its prey. Fergus straightened himself, suddenly feeling insulted by the question. She was making light of his honor, and he would prove himself. "It was my idea, ma'am. I alone am responsible. I did not wish to be pushed around by the space marines any longer, and so I lured my brothers and sisters here for recreation. I promised to ease their anxiety before the coming battle, and so deceived them into following me here. They are not to blame."

A hush fell over the cargo bay. Ortega's one good eye narrowed and her hands slowly landed on her hips. She stared up at Fergus, and he kept his gaze fixed straight ahead. The silence seemed to last for hours, days even. The tension spilled over the breaking point, and Fergus felt his knees go weak. Suddenly the quiet was torn by laughter. Fergus jumped at the noise, and looked down to see Ortega nearly doubled over as she snickered. She regained control of herself and smiled up at him, shaking her head.

"You've got guts, McNeil. I like that. Normally, I would shoot every last one of you, but..." She turned toward the others. "Today Corporal McNeil has saved your skins. I'd kill him instead, but you know what?" She grinned up at Fergus then back at the men. "I just can't bring myself to destroy someone with such a good singing voice. You've all said your evening prayers, yes?"

"Yes, Commissar!" shouted the troops in unison.

Ortega nodded. "Good. I'm tired of all that pomp and circumstance the marines have put us through. Do you feel the same?"

"Yes, Commissar!"

"Then get your arses back to where they were," said Ortega. "And somebody get me a synthohol. I'm parched. Now, McNeil, go change your underpants then get back here and give us another song."

The crowd cheered as their formation broke apart. The Dragoons swarmed around their commissar, offering cushions for her to sit on and bottles filled with dubious liquids to drink. Fergus let out a sigh of relief and took his seat once again, digging through his memory for another song to play when Ortega made a suggestion.

"Give us something triumphant, Corporal. We arrive at the next xeno planet tomorrow!"

"Yes, Commissar!" Fergus's fingers moved of their own accord, finding their positions as he beat out a marching tune.


	11. Chapter 11

Vre'Kri sat at his controls, his fingers drumming against the yoke as he awaited the order to launch. Only moments before had the holes in space been torn open once again, the impossibly long starships of the enemy ponderously dragging themselves out of the purple haze that lay beyond, like spired demons crawling from a miasmic pit. So far they had done nothing, sitting at the edge of the star system and observing. The shattered remnants of the Kor'vattra had formed a defensive perimeter around the space station suspended in orbit above Sy'l'kell. The station was an orbital defense platform, a formidable target for most fleets, but against the monsters from beyond the Gulf it would be hard pressed to sustain itself. The T'au fleet was coiled like a spring, a full salvo of deadly torpedoes awaiting a single word. Aboard every ship the squadrons of fighters awaited their orders. All around was silence. No one dared to speak. They all knew what was about to happen, who they were about to face. They knew that within the next few hours few of them would still be alive, and that thought made speech impossible. What does one say when each word might be their last?

Vre'Kri shook his head to clear his mind. It would do no good to dwell on such thoughts. Instead he ran his pre-flight checks for what felt like the millionth time, anything to take his mind away from the coming battle, and the dread of facing the crimson devil again. But no amount of distraction could erase the memory of La'Hora's final cry of fear. The image of the blood red fighter blasting her barracuda apart flashed in front of Vre'Kri's eyes, and for a moment he found it hard to breathe. Was he out there somewhere? Was the monster waiting for him? Would he decimate his squadron yet again?

The shrieking of a siren shook him out of his stupor. "Alert," said the automatic system. "Enemy fleet approaching. All fighter squadrons launch. Engage the enemy."

Vre'Kri's barracuda hovered in place, shaking for a moment as the energy fields surrounded it with intense polarity. The energy was abruptly inverted, and the repulsive force shot him from the catapult at the fighter's top speed. Vre'Kri eased his throttle forward to maintain acceleration, and brought himself to a smooth cruising speed before placing the engines on standby. He let the inertia carry him through space, and found himself staring at the monstrous approaching ships even as his squadron formed up behind him. A voice came over his earpiece as the tactician delivered his assignment.

"Star 1, this is Command. Your squadron is assigned point 152. Proceed to designated coordinates."

Vre'Kri's HUD blinked and a yellow triangle appeared, surrounding the target area. It centered over the lead ship, its hull still visibly damaged from the hits it had taken at Hydass. Vre'Kri swallowed his fear and replied, "Understood. Star Squadron moving out." He switched channels to speak with his wingmen. "Alright, everyone. Stay in formation until we reach the target. If you get engaged then break off in pairs. Watch each other's backs and don't let anyone stay behind you. Remember your training. No straight lines in a dogfight."

"Yes, Kor'Vre!" said the cadets.

Vre'Kri took another deep breath. A swarm of small objects sailed past him from behind, streaking toward the enemy fleet and leaving white trails of leftover fuel behind them. They blanketed the space between, hiding the stars with a thick shroud. They were the first salvo of torpedoes, and before they made impact a second volley was already on its way. The first wave slammed into the lead ship, gouging great chunks of steel from its mammoth bulk and sending them careening out into the void. Flames of all colors erupted from the points of impact before being snuffed out by the airless vacuum. Strange, arcane energies seemed to pulse around the entire vessel, shimmering in the starlight as the torpedoes slipped through it. Vre'Kri had no time to wonder what it was, as distant shapes began to emerge from the ship. There were hundreds of long, cylindrical objects appearing from the broken hull, far larger than the T'au torpedoes, and they began to surge ahead toward the defenses.

The comms chirped as Command came through. "Star 1, new tasking. Incoming fire is being directed at the defense station. Eliminate enemy projectiles."

"Acknowledged." Vre'Kri switched to his squadron once again. "New orders. Focus your fire on the enemy torpedoes. Take them out before they hit the station. Break now and engage."

Star Squadron broke formation, elegantly scattering with practiced ease. They left in pairs, with a single leader and follower in each. The fighters scrambled into unpredictable movement patterns as they dove into the mass of torpedoes. Vre'Kri selected his first target and wasted no time in firing, not bothering to wait for the AI to correct his aim. His burst cannons punched through the metal casing, shredding the massive device and adding its contents to the debris field. Odd shapes flew past his canopy: a rounded panel, a sword, and what appeared to be the upper half of a human torso. Understanding slapped Vre'Kri across his mind and he called up his superiors even as he fired on another target. 

"Command," he said. "Be advised, incoming projectiles are loaded with infantry. Tell the station to prepare for a hostile boarding action."

He didn't get to hear the reply. Something slammed into his fighter from above, drowning out whatever Command may have said. Instinctively he rolled over and began to climb, craning his neck to see who had fired at him. His blood froze as he spotted a flash of crimson against the background of stars. It was the same bloody fighter adorned with white patches and black crosses. The Red Devil had returned. Vre'Kri swallowed and felt that his throat was dry. His breathing became ragged, and he could feel lightheadedness taking over. He shook himself and pounded his control panel in anger. Now was not the time to falter. Now was the time for vengeance. With a roar of fury he turned to face the monster, spooling up his burst cannons.

The Devil fired first, a volley of burning laser fire that left scalding afterimages in Vre'Kri's eyes. The shots flew dangerously close, and he flinched, nosing beneath the fire and losing his chance to retaliate. Thinking ahead, he rolled and banked hard to port, cutting his thrust in order to turn more sharply before pushing the throttle back to maximum. As expected, the Devil had turned in a similar way, expecting to drop onto Vre'Kri's tail only to find him facing forward with weapons ready. Vre'Kri fired a prolonged burst, and was rewarded with two hits behind his opponent's cockpit before he rolled out of danger. Vre'Kri gritted his teeth and grinned menacingly to himself. "So..." he whispered. "You can bleed. That means you can be killed after all."

He gave chase, sliding behind the Devil and matching his movements. He struggled to follow after him, keeping pace but never getting a clear shot. Each time he lined up his crosshair, the demon would slip away. Vre'Kri's palms sweat fiercely, making his controls slick as he gripped them, white-knuckled and desperate. His teeth were clenched, every muscle tense, every breath strained. Suddenly he heard the voice of his wingman.

"Star 1, where are you? You're out of position!"

An explosion tore the space beside Vre'Kri's fighter, the shock making the barracuda shudder violently. For a moment he took his eyes off the Red Devil and glanced around him. Before him was the towering form of the enemy warship. He had been so intent on fighting the Devil that he had allowed himself to be lure into a trap. Turrets positioned all around the vessel were turning to take aim at him, each with a barrel several times larger in diameter than his fighter. With a yelp he pulled away, only to find the Devil on his tail. The moment had been all he had needed to get behind Vre'Kri.

Vre'Kri nearly panicked. He twisted in all directions, slipping past explosions the size of entire freighters as he bobbed and weaved through turret fire. He could feel the ever-approaching gaze of death staring into the back of his neck. Suddenly time seemed to freeze. A flash of a memory came over him as his thoughts drifted back to happier days. In the space of an instant he saw his life play out before him. He saw the smiling face of his mother, heard songs of the Empire being sung by the other children in the Academy, and felt the warmth of La'Hora's embrace. A new resolve settled over him as the memories faded. He was about to die, and everything he had ever cared for would soon follow. Of that he was certain. He shook his head turned toward the turret fire. If he was to die, he would take as many with him as he could. He charged his ion cannon and let a shot fly.

The blast impacted some invisible barrier surrounding the hull. For a moment despair threatened to overwhelm him, but then he saw it. There was a shimmer that appeared in a circle that closed in on itself, as if the blast had torn a hole that had been swiftly patched. An idea rapidly formed in his mind and he frantically searched the decadent spires of the vessel. He rolled beneath another impossibly large blast and found what he was looking for. Up on the tallest spire, toward the rear of the ship with an elevated view of the field, sat a structure of transparent material. Vre'Kri flew straight toward it, foregoing any evasive maneuvers. The Red Devil gave chase, and Vre'Kri let him come. Each time the Devil fired he would roll aside, narrowly dodging each shot.

"Come on," he growled at the demon. "Come on, you bastard! Lock onto me, dammit!" As if in answer, a hail of missiles deployed from the crimson fighter's wingtips and shrieked through space toward the barracuda. "Yes!" Vre'Kri roared in triumph. The Devil had taken the bait! He thrust his throttle as far forward as it would go, still keeping his course in a direct shot toward his target. He charged his ion cannon, waiting even as the missile warnings blared deafeningly in his ears. The AI was screaming at him, begging him to take evasive maneuvers, but still he carried on. The structure grew closer, nearly filling his view. Just a fraction of a second away from colliding he fired his cannon and pulled hard on the yoke, cutting thrust and engaging it again. The g-forces slammed into his body, nearly knocking him unconscious. The missiles sailed past him, losing their lock and streaking directly through the hole he had opened in the shield just before it closed and detonating against the surface. 

The crystal viewports shattered as flames consumed the ship's bridge. The superstructure began to collapse, and the entire vessel started to list and drift away as it lost helm control. Its nose began to drop, gradually slipping lower and lower until it was diving at the planet below. More of the vessel began to break apart as it plummeted into the atmosphere. The entire ship glowed with a white-hot outline, burning away in the atmosphere. Even from space, its impact upon the surface could be clearly seen. It slammed into the earth with impossible force, sending mountains of debris flying into orbit. Its impact would be felt across the entire world.

Vre'Kri took no time to admire the view. He vomited into his helmet and had to tear it away, his entire body trembling. The Red Devil had disappeared, and he now found himself eerily alone. He could not quite process what he had just done. None of it seemed real. It had been one in a million, surely the result of luck alone. Even so, he had done it. Voices were calling to him, but his ears were ringing too hard for him to hear. He gasped for air, barely able to breathe after the shock to his body. He looked down at himself and saw his legs bending at odd angles. The force of the turn had broken his bones. Upon seeing his injuries the pain began to stab at his senses. He croaked in agony, weakly tapping the key to his comms.

"C-command..." he wheezed. "This is Star 1... I'm hit... request permission to return."

"Acknowledged, Star 1. Permission granted. Star Squadron is clear to return."

-

Shas'La Sy'l'kell Hun crouched behind a pillar, the only cover available on the space station's promenade deck, and stared dumbfounded at the cylinder protruding through the bulkhead. It was huge, at least ten meters in diameter. Terrible drills were mounted to its front, still glowing red hot from having dug their way into the hull of the station. The fleet had reported that these machines contained boarders, and La'Hun knew it would only be a few moments before he and the rest of his cadre learned what horrific creatures lurked within the metallic monster.

The forward section split apart with a sickening hiss of air pressure. Ten giants strode forth in perfect formation, armored beasts of men with terrible glowing eyes and menacing gold and black colors. They marched onto the promenade, instantly spotting the hidden fire warriors and opening fire with a horrible noise that nearly deafened La'Hun. Their aim was unhumanly precise, and not a single round was wasted. Each shot killed a warrior, and within seconds nearly a score had been decimated. The T'au returned fire, pulse rifles and carbines spitting death back at the monsters. The marines weathered the storm, their armor proving to be highly durable. A single warrior fell as the pulse rounds pierced his helmet, but the others took no notice. They simply marched forward and fired again, felling even more of their foes in an instant.

La'Hun ducked behind his pillar, hoping to gain some cover. Instead a round punched through the solid construction and tore through his abdomen. The round exploded within him, and he felt his intestines being thrown across the promenade. He fell onto his face, trying to gasp for air but finding himself unable. His lungs were exposed, pressed bare against the deck. He was dying. The pain was tremendous, and the cold that settled over him was smothering. As he faded he heard the marines speak to one another, but could not understand their words.

"Sector clear. Beginning sweep."

"Set up the beacons. Once the station has fallen our brothers will follow. Move out."


	12. Chapter 12

Trajan pressed himself against the bulkhead, taking a brief glance around the corner. Steam filled the corridor ahead, the result of a ruptured coolant line somewhere out of sight. As the marines had yet to enter the area, the damage was likely self-inflicted, an attempt by the defenders to confound the surgical aim of the Astartes. Trajan's auspecs struggled for a moment to find a heat signature, but the icy fog hid anything beyond. There were likely dozens of xenos hiding behind the screen, and the Codex Astartes did not allow for a direct assault under such circumstances. Trajan growled with frustration as he blindly tossed a grenade into the cloud. It detonated, but there were no screams.

"We must seek an alternate route," said Brother Liam from his place beside Trajan. "This one is impassable without better intel."

"Agreed," said Trajan. "Take a reading. What lies behind this bulkhead?"

Liam pressed a device from his belt against the wall and waited for it to perform its function. "It is an interior wall. The space behind it is filled with conduits and pipelines, but it is similar in dimension to the hallway."

Brother Tiber was younger than his two battle brothers, and his bloodlust burned within him as he shook his head. "The conduits would make progress slow. We don't even know if there's anyone in the hallway." He leaned out of cover and fired a bolt pistol into the steam. A storm of searing blue pulses answered him, and he pulled himself out of the line of fire. A bolt struck his helm, tearing away his visor and boiling his eyes with its heat. "AAGH!" he roared as he clamped a hand over his face. "Guilliman's teeth!"

Trajan clamped a hand on his shoulder and pulled him away from the hall. "I suggest you reread chapter ninety-three, Brother," he said. "'Where smoke rises, a fire doubtless burns. Where the enemy should be is where the enemy will be. When the foe cannot be seen, but the signs of their presence abound, they are already in your midst. Let caution above all, and careful observation be your shield.' The words of the primarch are not to be taken lightly, nor his name taken in vain."

Tiber nodded, thoroughly chastised. "I'm sorry, sir. I lost control."

"How is your vision?" asked Liam.

"I can see," Tiber replied. "But the image is unclear."

"Return to the rear," said Trajan. "You won't kill many xenos when you can't see them. Have the apothecary examine you and return once he has cleared you for duty."

"Yes, sir." Tiber withdrew, walking with a hand against the wall to guide his steps.

Liam took Tiber's place. He took another glance around the corner and shook his head. "The xenos have set an effective trap. It is almost as if they know the extent of our wargear's functionality."

"Impossible," Trajan replied. "They have never encountered us before. No warriors could adapt so quickly."

"Except us," Liam pointed out. "Perhaps these xenos are more resourceful than most. In any case, it will serve them little. I will carve a flanking route for us. Give me a moment to break through this wall." He stood back and raised his fist, winding up a strike. He channeled all of his enhanced strength into his arm as he punched a hole through the wall. His fingers curled and dug into the panel, piercing through to form an impromptu handle. With a mighty tug the Ultramarine ripped it free and cast it aside, revealing a crawlspace. It was just as his readings had described, as wide as the hallway but filled with all manner of strange devices and cables. It would take time to clear the path, but it was by far the more strategically sound option. Liam began pulling away the conduits, ripping them out with total disregard for their function. Trajan made ready to follow behind him when movement in his peripheral vision caught his eye.

Five space marines were marching toward them, their armor black with white accents and pristine snowy robes. Black crosses adorned their vestments, combining with glowing red lenses that gave them a hellish appearance. Trajan growled under his breath as he almost spat their chapter's name. "Black Templars."

The marines stopped short of the defended hallway. Their leader, a man with a white helm adorned with golden laurels, spoke. "Ultramarines, I am Captain Timothy Gavroche. Identify yourselves."

"I am Sergeant Trajan and this is Battle Brother Liam," Trajan replied, trying to keep disdain out of his voice. "What do you require of us?"

"The speed of your progress has displeased my commander," said the captain. "You are relieved. My brothers and I shall finish your task, as you seem unable to complete it." He cast a glance into the crawlspace. "What were you even doing?"

The insult made Trajan's blood boil with rage. The Templars were brash, uncouth, and disrespectful, everything an Ultramarine sought to purge from his character. He bit his tongue and replied calmly. "The xenos are entrenched behind a smokescreen in the passage ahead. We are unable to target them, and they have the hallway presighted. Since explosive ordnance has proven ineffective, we are creating a flanking route."

"This passage?" Before Trajan could make any attempt to prevent him, Captain Timothy stepped around the corner into full view of the enemy. The fire came immediately, rounds shrieking through the air around him. A few glanced off his ceramite armor, and several more penetrated. He stepped back with several new holes in his battle plate, blood dripping onto the deck, but he seemed unphased. "Sergeant," he said. "Do you mean to tell me that this little obstacle is what has delayed your progress?"

"I have lost one marine and a second has been incapacitated," said Trajan. "The Codex demands that an alternative strategy be sought."

"The Codex." The captain spat the word as if its syllables were toxic. "Your chapter's crippling devotion to that ancient tome has neutered you. Stand aside. We shall deal with these xenos." He turned to his men, drawing a power sword from his belt and activating it. Lightning cracked around the blade as he spoke. "Form up. Let's show Guilliman's lackeys how true champions of the Emperor fight. Charge!" With a defeaning roar the Templars surged into the corridor and disappeared into the mist. Trajan watched them go, grimacing as the sounds of bolters and the roaring of chainswords reached his ears. He checked the chamber of his bolter and stepped toward the corner, only to be stopped by Liam's hand on his shoulder.

"No, Sergeant," he said. "Let them go. Glory earned in defiance of the Codex is no glory at all."

"You would have me stand idly by and let them insult us?" Trajan demanded. "We have earned our place here. This battle is not over."

"We were ordered to the rear," Liam reminded him. "Our time will come. For now, we must have patience. It is a trait the separates us from them. Be the better Astartes, sir. Let them be the bloodthirsty fools."

Trajan angrily fired a burst into the far wall. The shots rang out over the sounds of battle ahead, but were swiftly swallowed up. He then hung his head and heaved his shoulders with a heavy sigh. "You're right, brother. Our work is finished here. Come on. Let's go check on Tiber."

-

Shas'O Needa directed his fire warriors, calling out positions for them to take. The soldiers moved to their designated places, crouching behind consoles and pieces of furniture that had once served as the station's command center. They were the last of the defenders, all that stood between the station and the hordes of demons that stalked its halls. O'Needa knew his position was hopeless. There would be no reinforcements, no way to escape the coming slaughter. The monsters had proven indomitable, and they had cut through the defenders with ease. The warriors were frightened, some of them even shaking, but there was not a whisper of complaint among them. Each and every Fire Caste soldier had determined to die a warrior's death, an honorable fate for their kind. As O'Needa climbed into the cockpit of his XV-8 battlesuit, he couldn't help but feel proud of his troops. He cast a final look over them, the last he would see with his own eyes, then embarked.

The displays burned to life before him, giving him a perfect view of the command center. There was little room to maneuver, but just enough to allow the use of his jump jets. He took position at the front of the formation, presenting himself and his suit's superior armor as a target to draw fire away from the warriors around him. He activated the flamer on his left arm and tested it briefly, letting a gout if yellow fury erupt for a brief moment. It had seemed fitting to mount a fire weapon for his final battle, a way to show the enemy the fury of his caste before the end. He checked his right arm, receiving a ready signal from the burst cannon mounted there, then turned his attention to the entrance.

He could hear the enemy approaching now. The roars of their weapons and screeching of their victims was unmistakable. "Steady," he said over the suit's external speakers. The command was not needed; the fire warriors would hold fast no matter how afraid they might be. Even so, O'Needa had felt an impulse to say something to comfort them. He tried again. "Fire Warriors, you have fought with honor. Every day of your lives has been filled with the glory of conquest. Together we have swept aside all who struggle against the Greater Good. Together we fought back the Ork. Together we tamed the Vespid. Now together we shall die. This is the fate of the Fire Caste, to die by the sword just as we have lived by it. Do not despair, nor fear your enemy, for they have not your heart and soul. Theirs is a war of evil, and while they may triumph today our brothers and sisters shall carry on our fight tomorrow." The shrieks and gunfire were drawing nearer now, and O'Needa raised his voice. "Songs shall be sung of our sacrifice! Our deeds shall be taught to our children as stories of valor! Let all who follow you say that this was the day Cadre Starshield became legends! This is the day we earn our place in the Empire! For the Greater Good!"

"For the Greater Good!" chorused the others.

O'Needa took aim at the entryway, waiting for a target to appear in his reticle. The door disappeared in a flash of fire and smoke, and five black-armored demons charged into the command center. Every weapon fired at once, pelting the enemy with pulse shots and plasma bolts. O'Needa fired his burst cannon, turning the lead marine into a crimson mist with an explosion of ceramite shrapnel. Then the Astartes returned fire. They were precise and efficient, horrifyingly accurate. They ignored the battlesuit altogether, swiftly placing shots into the fire warriors. Their weapons tore through cover and soldier alike, leaving them nowhere to hide. O'Needa howled with rage and charged into their midst. He turned his flamer upon them, dousing the marines with deadly fuel and setting it alight. Three of them nimbly stepped aside, leaving only one to take the brunt of the attack. The Astartes bellowed in agony as the flames engulfed him. The fuel had leaked into his armor, and now he was boiling alive from within. He dropped his weapon and fell to his knees, ripping off his helmet and trying to tear his breastplate away. His skin had blackened and began to melt down his face, twisting it into a hellish expression before a fire warrior took pity on him. A pulse round shot through his skull and left him lying dead.

O'Needa had not stopped to savor the spectacle. He had stayed on the attack. A four-fingered hand deployed from the arm of his battlesuit, and he lunged outward with it. His fingers clamped mercilessly down on the helm of a marine, the ceramite plating cracking beneath the weight of its grip. The suit's joints whined in protest as O'Needa lifted the massive warrior off his feet before firing his jump jets. He sailed across the command center and used his momentum to smash the marine's skull against the wall. The Astartes spasmed, but continued to struggle. O'Needa pulled him back and slammed him against the wall once again, then again, then again, until finally the armor gave way and he flattened his foe's cranium against the bulkhead. Still the two remaining marines fought on, seemingly oblivious to their comrade's fate. O'Needa as they gunned the last fire warrior down with ease, then they turned on him.

The Astartes separated from one another, spreading out as if to encircle him. The pilot took a wide stance as the more ornately decorated demon drew a sword and held it with the tip aimed squarely at his chest. The other reloaded his weapon and moved to O'Needa's rear. The first nodded to the second, and the struggle began. O'Needa rushed the swordsman, but jumped to the side at the last second, spraying his flamer at his opponent. The marine rolled forward and ducked beneath the flames, and the other warrior tracked the battlesuit's maneuver, firing a burst of explosive rounds into its armor. Red warning light flashed and sparks flew throughout the cockpit as the AI processed the damage. O'Needa didn't bother waiting for the assessment. He fired his burst cannon, only to find the swordsman on top of him. The blade came for the suit's head, taking it off with one clean swing. The display blacked out for a brief second, before being replaced with a feed from the backup sensors. O'Needa's hand shot out, the mechanical arm punching through the warrior's breastplate and grabbing hold. He lifted the marine and tossed him away, throwing him at his comrade. The two nearly collided, but the gunman dropped into a kneeling position and fired another burst. The swordsman flipped in the air, somehow managing to right himself before he hit the ground, and rushed in for another attack. This time the sword took the left arm, slashing through the joints before O'Needa could react. He pulled back, using his jump jets to create distance, but the Astartes gave chase. Both marines came at him now. The flat of the sword slammed into the suit's center torso, sending it crashing to the ground. In an instant the gunman leaped on top of O'Needa, emptying his magazine at point blank range. The critical warning sirens screeched, and the display became distorted as the damage ruined the backup sensors. Gaping cavities opened in the armor, and a shot grazed O'Needa's face, tearing his lower jaw away from his mouth. He lay stunned, watching as the sword point slowly rose above him, its wielder preparing the final blow. In its last moment the suit's translator read the marine's words.

"Die, xeno! The Emperor wills it!"

The sword plunged downward. It sank to the hilt, shearing through armor and pilot alike.


	13. Chapter 13

The Imperial fleet recovered swiftly from its initial loss. As soon as the defense station fell, the ships charged ahead like vengeful behemoths. The T'au responded with massed torpedo barrages, firing in quick succession. The flashes of detonation had no time to die out before the next explosive would impact, shaking the hulls of the monsters to their core. Armor was broken away, entire decks were depressurized. Men and women were pulled into the unfeeling cold of the void by the hundreds before the bulkheads slammed down to close the breaches. Still the Imperial fleet advanced, drawing ever closer. Their weapons began to return fire, though they were still beyond their effective range. The human-made torpedoes scattered, their primitive cogitators preventing them from achieving the same accuracy as their T'au counterparts, and they went wide. Even so, the Kor'vattra knew that their time was up. They began to retreat, throwing their engines into reverse and pulling away from the encroaching monsters. They knew that their vessels would not survive a close engagement, and as the heavy cannons began to fire their ordered withdrawal devolved into a frenzied rout. All throughout the T'au fleet the captains shouted panic-driven orders, unwilling to face the horror of the Imperial guns as they had at Hydass. They fled to the opposite side of the planet, abandoning their forces on the ground below.

The Imperials did not pursue. They had reached the orbit of Sy'l'kell, and had thereby achieved their objective. Hatches deployed from beneath their hulls, and heavy capital weaponry was rolled into position. In a few moments orbital bombardment would rain utter devastation upon the ground defences. Cannons with asteroid-sized bores were loaded with massive rounds, each one capable of laying waste to an entire city. Suddenly streaks of blue fire shot up from the planet's surface, slamming into the ships above. The blasts pounded the warp fields, nearly overwhelming their generators. Still more bolts sailed upward, hundreds of them at once. These began to impact the hulls themselves, and they melted their way deep into the interior. The Imperial ships withdrew swiftly, taking evasive action.

General Gauge stroked his chin as he watched the events transpire on the display before him. Sparks rained down about him as the ship shuddered from another strike. Sirens screamed at him to take caution, but he simply smiled. He looked up at his command staff, each man, staring wide-eyed into his face, as if searching for some divine revelation that would tell them what they should do. Gauge nodded to the admiral.

"Pull back out of range," he said calmly. "It seems the xenos are familiar with the concept of capital weaponry."

"We should virus bomb the planet," said one of the captains. "It can't be worth the resources."

"We have not been authorized to perform the rite of exterminatus on any of these worlds," Gauge reminded him. "Our orders were to reclaim our lost territory and to purge the xenos threat. Wiping the planet clean of all life and rendering it unusable would defeat the entire purpose of our crusade. We are not here simply to destroy everything the xenos have touched. We are here to claim new worlds for the Imperium. We can handle a few orbital defenses, can we not?"

"Of course," replied the captain. "I simply wish to point out that our resources are limited. We cannot allow ourselves to become bogged down here."

"We won't," said the general. "You will deploy your guardsmen and have them engage the enemy's battle lines. Meanwhile, Captain Titus will lead his Ultramarines to destroy the orbital defences. We will break the T'au before sundown."

-

Fergus held his breath as he took his place in the dropship. Behind him was a bench filled with other guardsmen like himself, and there was no more sitting room. He would be standing during the drop. He swallowed hard and slipped his hand through a loop of polyfab that dangled loosely from the ceiling. It wasn't much of a handle, but it was better than nothing. Within a few moments the rest of the unit piled into the craft, and it became claustrophobic. Fergus felt his arms pinned to his sides as the guardsmen pressed in from all sides. The last one to board was Commissar Ortega. She was dressed for battle, her black coat freshly pressed and her hair smartly tucked beneath her tall hat. The crimson sash at her waist was deep and vibrant, creating a striking contrast against the darker shades that dominated her uniform. Compared to the plain combat armor of the infantry, it was a masterpiece of fashion. The uniform had been designed to set her apart, to mark her station for all to see. It was more than vanity that drove the decadence, it was a symbol of her absolute authority on the battlefield. She was more than an officer; she was an extension of the Emperor's will, the closest a human could come to being divine without achieving genuine sainthood.

The ramp closed behind Ortega as she planted her feet and folded her arms behind her back. The compartment sealed shut, cutting off the outside light. A dim, red glow filled the space as the globes mounted on the walls activated, bathing everyone with a blood-like hue. The Commissar stood firm, like a crimson statue, surveying the troops. The deck shuddered beneath them and Fergus held tight to the handle. The dropship was lifting off, and the sudden lurch nearly knocked him off balance. Ortega remained perfectly steady and shouted over the roar of the engines.

"Today we face our enemy for the first time. We have intelligence on their capabilities, and we know that the xenos are weak. Their armor is feeble, their soldiers small in stature, and their weapons ineffective. They may have driven off the navy with their pathetic cannons, but we are the Imperial Guard! We do not cower to artillery, we return fire with our own! Today we will show the navy who the true defenders of the Imperium are! We will be landing under heavy fire from the surface. Doubtless, the xenos have expected our arrival. They will be dug in and fortified, with heavy weapon emplacements and deep earthworks. We will deploy in formation and advance on those positions."

The dropship quaked as something exploded nearby. Fergus nearly lost his grip and slammed heavily into the woman beside him. Still Ortega stood firm, immovable as a spire.

"I want tight discipline on the ground," she continued. "Enemy fire is certain to be heavy, and you will be tempted to flee. You will ignore this temptation. Advance and the Emperor shall protect you. Retreat and your death will be certain, as it will be dealt by my own hand." The craft shook again as another detonation slammed against its armor. "There are no cowards among you. Your faith makes you invincible. You shall charge as the unbreakable bulwark of the Emperor's will. You will rain his wrath down upon the filth of the xenos. The alien shall know terror, and you shall send their souls screaming into the void. Cast off your fear, guardsmen! McNeil!"

Fergus jumped as he heard his name called. "Yes, Commissar?"

"Give the boys a marching song. I want maximum morale before we hit the ground."

Fergus took a deep breath, his mind racing through his memories for a tune that would fit. He needed something simple, something that didn't require an instrument. The answer rushed into his thoughts and he began to stamp his feet to a marching beat as he sang.

"In the merry month of June from me home I started.  
Left the girls of Tuam nearly broken hearted.  
Saluted Father dear, kissed me darling mother.  
Drank a pint of beer, me grief and tears to smother.  
Then off to reap the corn, leave where I was born,  
Cut a stout blackthorn to banish ghosts and goblins,  
A brand new pair of brogues, rattlin' o'er the bogs,  
Frightenin' all the dogs on the rocky road to Dublin!

"One two three four five!  
Hunt the Hare and turn her down the rocky road!  
And all the way to Dublin, Whack fol lol le rah!"

Other feet joined his own in stomping out the rhythm, and he found the voices of the rest of the regiment joining in the song.

"In Mullingar that night I rested limbs so weary.  
Started by daylight me spirits bright and airy.  
Took a drop of the pure,  
Keep me heart from sinking.  
That's the Paddy's cure whenever he's on drinking.  
To see the lassies smile, laughing all the while  
At me curious style, 'twould set your heart a bubblin'!  
An' asked if I was hired, wages I required,  
'Till I was nearly tired of the rocky road to Dublin!

"One two three four five!  
Hunt the Hare and turn her down the rocky road!  
And all the way to Dublin, Whack fol lol le rah!

"In Dublin next arrived, I thought it such a pity  
To be soon deprived a view of that fine city.  
Well then I took a stroll, all among the quality,  
Bundle it was stole, all in a neat locality.  
Something crossed me mind, when I looked behind  
No bundle could I find upon me stick a wobblin'!  
Enquiring for the rogue, said me Connaught brogue  
Wasn't much in vogue on the rocky road to Dublin!

"One two three four five!  
Hunt the Hare and turn her down the rocky road!  
And all the way to Dublin, Whack fol lol le rah!

"From there I got away, me spirits never falling,  
Landed on the quay, just as the ship was sailing.  
The Captain at me roared, said that no room had he  
When I jumped aboard, a cabin found for Paddy  
Down among the pigs, played some funny rigs,  
Danced some hearty jigs, the water round me bubblin'!  
When off Holyhead wished meself was dead,  
Or better far instead  
On the rocky road to Dublin!

"One two three four five!  
Hunt the Hare and turn her down the rocky road!  
And all the way to Dublin, Whack fol lol le rah!"

There was a great roar as the dropship slammed into the earth, and a siren began to wail. The ramp slowly descended as the soldiers reached the final verse.

"The boys of Liverpool, when we safely landed  
Called meself a fool, I could no longer stand it.  
Blood began to boil, temper I was losing!  
Poor old Erin's isle they began abusing!  
"Hurrah me soul!" says I, me shillelagh I let fly!  
Some Galway boys were nigh and saw I was a hobble in!  
With a loud 'Hurray!' joined in the affray!  
We quickly cleared the way for the rocky road to Dublin!

"One two three four five!  
Hunt the Hare and turn her down the rocky road!  
And all the way to Dublin, Whack fol lol le rah!

"Hunt the Hare and turn her down the rocky road!  
And all the way to Dublin, Whack fol lol le rah!  
Whack fol lol le rah!  
Whack fol lol le rah!"

The ramp crashed into the ground with a dull thud, and the guardsmen marched out into the sunlight of Sy'l'kell. It was a fair morning, and the field before them was filled with an alien grain that waved wildly in the wash of the dropship engines. Other ships landed all around them, each unloading soldiers by the score. Men, cannons, sentinel walkers, and Leman Russ tanks deployed in perfect formation, forming a line of flesh and steel that stretched over a mile in length. It was a formidable force, though Fergus had seen far larger armies in his time. The T'au hardly required the full might of the Guard. This strike force would be more than enough to drive the aliens back. The officers took their place at the front of the formation and the Commissars in the rear. It was standard practice; place the inspirational leaders in full view of the men and keep the fear of execution at their backs. Fergus had seen it all before and knew just how effective a tactic it was.

Orders were barked and the men began to march. The cannons stayed behind, their barrels climbing skyward as they made ready to bombard the enemy positions. The walkers strode ahead to scout and skirmish, the tanks pulling in front of the infantry to serve as cover. Fergus took a position by a tank's left tread, waiting for the first shots to fly. He did not need to wait long.

One of the sentinels bucked as a hail of blue pulses tore through its armor. The pilot tumbled from his seat and the walker collapsed beside him. The man dove to take cover behind his broken machine and drew a laspistol from his belt. A tank halted and fired its main gun, then started rolling again. Another fired, and then another. The blue pulses came again, and Fergus could see their point of origin ahead. A line of earth rose above the grain in the distance. He saw objects moving behind it, scurrying to new firing positions as they fired upon the tanks. The armored vehicles weathered the blasts and continued to roll ahead, crushing the crops beneath their treads. The enemy fire then turned on the infantry. One of the lieutenants at the head of the formation disappeared as a sizzling bolt of energy vaporized his body. Guardsmen along the line began to cry out in agony as the shots found their marks. Men and women fell to the ground as the scattered fire turned into a hailstorm of deadly strikes. The man to Fergus's left grunted and a bolt took his head from his shoulders. A woman to his right fell to her knees, shrieking as she clutched her abdomen and tried to hold in her seared intestines. Ortega calmly approached her as the line of marching soldiers left her behind and shot her through the skull, though whether the act was one of mercy or contempt for her cries Fergus couldn't tell. The Guard continued to press onward, lasguns pointed forward and bayonets glittering in the sunrise.

The cannons of the artillery fired from behind them, the shells screaming overhead before impacting. Small, broken bodies were flung aside like ragdolls as the explosions shot soil and soldiers into the air. Still the fire continued. A bolt whizzed past Fergus's head, and he felt the terrible heat that it carried. He clutched his lasgun, desperate for something to shoot at, anything to let him feel as though he could protect himself. A moment later he got his wish. A hundred machines leaped out of the enemy trenches, bipedal robots bristling with heavy weapons. Thrusters fired from their backs and they zipped forward with blinding speed. In a fraction of a second they were among the infantry. Burst cannons spooled up and began to spray death in all directions. The rounds cut through the guardsmen like a blade through grass, each short burst killing a dozen men or more. Fergus raised his weapon to his shoulder and fired at the closest machine. Its head snapped toward him as the lasbolt was harmlessly absorbed by its armor. The battle suit jumped toward him and brought its cannons to bear, and for a moment Fergus was frozen with fear. He felt in his heart that he was about to die, and his limbs failed to respond to him. The suit pounced, flying past Fergus and landing atop the tank he had been using for cover. A four-fingered hand deployed from its arm and grabbed at the vehicle's entrance hatch, then after a moment of struggle tore it free and cast it aside. The enemy straddled the turret and fired a burst into the crew compartment, and Fergus could hear the drivers and gunners scream in panic as it butchered them all. Then, just as suddenly as it had arrived, it was gone. The suits withdrew, flying back behind the earthworks. Now a new threat emerged from the trenches.

Hundreds of floating disk-shaped objects charged from over the rise, each one armed with more of the pulse-spitting weapons. They fired as they approached, zipping wildly in all directions as they tried to dodge lasgun fire. They were fast and difficult to track, but the Guard had trained for these kind of foes. Their marksmen picked off the automated foes one by one, and still the Guard marched onward. They were nearing the trenches now, and Fergus had taken a place at the front of the formation. With his cover gone he strode boldly forward, only pausing to duck beneath pulse shots or to fire at one of the drones. He saw the xenos clearly now, squat aliens with foreign armor covering their spindly bodies. Their skin was blue, their faces gaunt and hideous, and they walked on a pair of unsightly hooves. Fergus and the others climbed the rise in a made scrambled, leaping over the edge to engage the T'au in melee combat. The xenos left their firing positions and began to flee, falling back toward another line of trenches behind the first. Fergus caught one with his back turned. The alien was struggling to climb out of the trench, his rifle discarded on the ground beside him. Fergus drove his bayonet between the the creature's shoulder blades, and was rewarded with a panicked shriek and a gout of purple blood. He tore the blade free of his victim and searched for a new target. There was another xeno nearby, braver than the first. It was standing its ground with a pistol, shooting the heads of guardsmen as they appeared over the edge of the rise. Fergus screamed with rage and charged them, his boots barely finding purchase in the muddy trench floor. The xeno turned, seeing him and trying to bring their pistol to bear, but it was too slow to save itself. Fergus's blade caught them in the side, and the guardsman easily lifted his victim from its feet and drove it down into the mire. Fergus twisted the blade, making the alien writhe in agony beneath him. Its voice was shrill with panic as it begged for mercy. Fergus responded with a final wrenching of his bayonet.

The Guard washed over the earthworks like an unstoppable flood. They gathered themselves to attack the next line of trenches, but an eerie quiet suddenly descended over the field. They marched forward, but there was no more enemy fire. Nothing shot at them as they made their way to the second line. They slowly drew ever closer, gradually nearing the next rise. The officers ordered a halt just before the trench. One man was selected from the line to take point. The guardsman saluted and slowly climbed up the rise, his feet slipping on its muddy surface. He reached the top a moment later and stared down into the pit, sweeping left and right with his lasgun. After a second of watching for movement he turned around, a wide grin on his face.

"It's empty!" he cried. "There's hoofprints leading away from the trench. They've all run away!"

The officers smiled to one another, then raised their hands toward the soldiers. "Guardsmen! The field is ours! The Emperor protects!"

A mighty cheer rose from the ranks as every man and woman raised their weapons into the air. Fergus fell to one knee and let out a gasp of relief. The battle was over, they had won, and he had survived. He smiled to himself, glad to know that this campaign would be far easier than his last.

Then the missiles landed.


	14. Chapter 14

Fergus pulled his face out of the mud, every muscle in his arms aching with the strain. He felt heavy, as if something unspeakably large was on his back. He blinked filthy water from his eyes and tried to look around, but he could see nothing more than a blur of moving colors. He could feel the pressure waves of explosions pummeling him from every angle, but all he could hear was a terrible ringing in his ears. He wiped his sleeve across his face and rubbed the muck from his eyes. His vision cleared just enough to focus, though everything now held a fuzzy outline. He was lying in the dirt where the missile detonation had flung him, his legs trapped beneath a corpse and a mound of earth. He felt pain in the lower part of his body, and he flexed his toes. To his relief they responded perfectly. He sat up and pulled at his legs, yanking them free one by one, and stood on his unsteady feet. The limbs tingled painfully as the circulation returned, but Fergus knew that he was undamaged. He began to claw around in the dirt, desperate to find his lasgun.

A hand fell on his shoulder and hauled him upright. Fergus turned directly into the screaming face of Commissar Ortega. Her expression twisted this way and that as she howled orders at him, but Fergus couldn't hear her. He placed a hand over his ear and pulled it away, finding his palm covered in blood. Ortega saw the evidence of injury and stopped screaming, instead calmly pulling a laspistol from her belt and handing it to him. She pointed toward the rear, where the Guard had taken shelter in the xeno earthworks that they had claimed. Ortega took his arm and tossed him in that direction, waving him back. Fergus obeyed and stumbled his way to the edge of the ditch before gracelessly flinging himself into it. The remaining guardsmen caught him as he fell and dropped him to the floor. Someone leaned over him, shouting questions and gesturing wildly as their hands felt across his body. Perhaps a medicae checking for injuries? Fergus pointed to his ear and shook his head, and the face above him nodded its understanding. Something jabbed his arm, breaking his skin, and everything went dark.

-

Vre'Odess watched as the hail of missiles impacted the horde of invaders and nodded his head in satisfaction. His marker drone sang a chirping string of audible code as it returned to him, and it whistled as it settled back into its mounting on the back of the battlesuit. Vre'Odess twisted a finger, and the cameras zoomed in on the enemy. From his place where the fields met a thick patch of trees he could see them scramble. The tanks were burning, having taken the brunt of the missile strikes. The marker drone was programmed to target armored foes first. The infantry had scattered, taking cover in the trench and firing their weapons in random directions as they struggled to fight off their unseen foes. The entire line had halted its progress under the barrage, and confusion was running rampant in their ranks.

Another battlesuit, similar to Vre'Odess's, stepped into place beside him, the voice of its pilot coming through crisp and clear over the comlink. "They are in disarray, Shas'Vre."

"They have no idea what hit them," Vre'Odess agreed. "The Aun'El was right. They bring overwhelming power and rely on brute force. Subtle tactics are beyond their understanding. We shall educate them. Tell the pathfinders to launch another salvo, then prepare to counterattack."

"At once," replied the pilot. He turned away, sending the coded orders to the soldiers behind them. The pathfinder teams swapped out the expended missile pods on their turrets for fresh ones, and a moment later the deadly weapons were shrieking across the sky once again. Vre'Odess watched them impact the enemy's position, a grim smile on his face. The missiles ignored the protection of the trench, falling from above. The earthworks trapped the shockwaves, increasing their damage. The aliens were torn apart, and eviscerated body fragments were tossed high into the air.

"Yes," Vre'Odess whispered. "The Imperium of Man, the monster our Gue'vesa have always feared since we claimed them, even your unstoppable might trembles before the Greater Good. The great lumbering behemoth, the sleeping giant of human myth, you are every bit the demon they feared you to be. But we shall slay you. We shall bleed you dry with a thousand cuts, and you will beg to join our righteous cause before the end!" He waved his battlesuit's arm, motioning for the men to follow after him. "For the Greater Good!" he cried. "Charge!"

-

Fergus woke as another wave of missiles tossed him aside. He could hear the thunder now, though it was dulled and distant. He tried to stand, only to be cast aside by another blast. He slammed against the trench wall, and the impact knocked the wind out of him. All around he could see the result of the strike. His comrades were in tatters. A disembowled torso lay at his feet, the face bloated beyond recognition. To his left was the mangled corpse of a woman Fergus had known to be named Marie. She had been pretty, and he had fancied her. Now she was broken, her limbs twisted in unnatural ways and her hair matted with mud, a grotesque parody of her former beauty. Any other man might have felt horror or fallen into despair, but Fergus simply shook his head with mild disappointment. He had seen it all before, and the shock of seeing dead brothers and lovers alike had been lost on him. He pried Marie's lasgun from her grip and offered a brief prayer to its machine spirit, promising to take better care of it than he had with his last weapon. A brief search of her pouches rewarded him with an extra power pack and a bayonet, which he affixed to the muzzle before taking a position at the edge of the trench. He was no grand strategist, but he knew enough of war to know that after every barrage an assault was sure to follow.

He saw the enemy advancing, swarming upon them from their rear position. Hovering tanks, flying robotic machines, and scores of infantry were running across the open ground. Fergus shouted over the cries of the wounded and dying, hoping to catch the attention of an officer.

"Enemy contact!"

Commissar Ortega climbed to the edge of the trench, hardly a meter away from Fergus's position. Her left leg was missing, but she had somehow managed to replace it with a bayonet. The hilt had been driven into her muscle, and the point anchored her to the ground. Blood was gushing from the grievous wound, but she seemed to ignore the pain. Fergus shuddered as he looked at her, a new fear and respect for her kind emerging within him. So great was a Commissar's fervor and willingness to suffer for the Emperor that even the greatest agony was a mere inconvenience. She took a moment to survey the incoming force then shouted at the guardsmen still in the trench.

"Form up, guardsmen! I want a firing line ready now! If there are any heavy weapons left, bring them to the front!" For a moment there was no reply, the men and women still struggling to recover from the massive death around them. Ortega calmly raised her bolt pistol and fired blindly into the ranks, shattering a man's skull and painting his comrades crimson with his gore. "Form up now!" she cried. "If you will not fulfill your duty to the Emperor, than I will end it for you! Move your arses onto the line!"

The men complied, keeping their heads down to avoid looking her in the eye. Every lasgun bristled out of the trench to point at the enemy. A heavy bolter was quickly placed on the line, and a gunner crew took up position behind it. Up ahead, the xenos were drawing closer. The infantry had stopped their charge, dropping to the ground and firing their pulse weapons at a distance. The bolts zipped across the field, taking heads off of shoulders but mostly slamming into the ground with a burst of smoke and the smell of burning sod. The battlesuits arrived first, their armor shrugging off lasgun fire without any effect. The leaped in all directions, hopping in and out of the trenches like deadly insects. They pounced, crushing men beneath their feet, pouring fire down the line, and effortlessly slaughtering the guardsmen by the score. The heavy bolter began to fire, and its more powerful ammunition had a greater effect. The shots tore the armor from a nearby suit, punching holes through and reducing its pilot to a mess of purple meat. Next came the tanks. Gun drones mounted to the front fired burst cannons, shredding the men with ease. The cannons fired in a flash of blue-white fire, blasting craters in the earthworks and sending the screaming bodies of the Guard flying in all directions.

Ortega cursed as she ducked beneath a hail of burst fire. She whirled around and screamed over the noise. "I need a voxcaster! Now!"

One whimpering guardswoman limped to her side, her face stained with tears of fright. The heavy pack on her back that contained the vox unit threatened to pull her down, but she managed to stay upright and pass the microphone to Ortega with a quivering hand. The Commissar accepted it, placing a hand on the woman's shoulder.

"Take heart," said Ortega. "This is what you were born for. Do not fear death. Fear denies faith." She pressed the switch on the microphone and began calling out coordinates. Fergus caught a glimpse of her between shooting at the battlesuits that continued to rip his comrades apart. Though he could not hear her words, he knew what she was saying. His heart sank and he fell to his knees before pressing himself against the trench wall. He pulled his legs against his chest, trying to make himself as small as possible. He shut his eyes tight and began to pray, rocking back and forth as he begged the Emperor to preserve him.

Vre'Odess was in his element. He strode confidently across the field, smashing the enemy beneath him. It was not honorable. It could not even be called a battle. This was a slaughter, the type of merciless killing only an ambush could allow. He shouted to the enemy, crowing in triumph as he blasted them away. "This is for Hydass, you butchers! Flee for your lives! The Greater Good demands retribution! It will not be denied!" The sound of distant screeching snapped him out of his bloodlust. He paused, ignoring the lasgun bolts that pelted his armor like raindrops as he strained to hear what it was. Realization hit him, and he tried to cry out to his comrades, but it was too late. Artillery shells struck all around, decimating man and T'au alike. A battlesuit exploded as a shall impacted it directly, a hammerhead tank was overturned by a blast wave, and the pathfinders were being tossed about like playthings. 

Vre'Odess called out, his heart racing with disbelief and panic. "Fall back!" he cried. "Fall back and regroup." He flicked his controls, firing his thrusters as he flew back from the trench, a shell exploding in the space he had just occupied. He shook his head, calling to the enemy as he fled. "Do the lives of your men mean so little? Are you that mad?" Even as he spoke he saw movement in the sky. A thousand dropships, a hundred times more than what had landed before, descended from above. He saw the truth set before him, and he felt like a fool. He had not been fighting the Imperium's army. This had been a mere fraction, an advance force to secure a landing site. It did not matter how many he butchered or what tactics he used to outwit them. There would always be more bodies to fill the gaps and press on. Sy'l'kell did not have the manpower to stop such a force. The whole of the Empire could not produce such numbers as these. He began to prepare a full plan of retreat in his mind, seeking to abandon the field. There would be no victory here.


	15. Chapter 15

Trajan's squad moved silently through the forest, passing through the brush with wraithlike grace. Even in their monstrously heavy armor they made no sound. Every step and movement was precisely planned and executed, from the shifting of their weight to the placement of their feet. Their blue armor clashed against the green all about them, but without sound and with the thickness of the woods one might have mistaken the lumbering giants as a trick of the light. The trees and shrubs were so closely knit that at times the forest felt almost like a wall, a natural barrier against invasion. Visibility beyond a few meters was nonexistent, and even Trajan's advanced auspecs couldn't pick out a definitive trace of life. There were hundreds of birds and small mammals that darted through his line of sight, each signature making target identification even more difficult. Still he pressed onward. The small window in the corner of his visor's display provided an orbital view of the area, and his objective was marked by a pulsing blue dot. There he and his men would find the origin of the blasts that had deterred the fleet. Some great fortification surely awaited them, and at any moment they would be upon it.

The forest abruptly thinned, giving way to a vast meadow. The line of trees halted, forming a living wall that surrounded it on every side. The Ultramarines were now standing in the open, and they scanned each way as they advanced. Bolters tracked along the edge of the trees as the marines marched through waist-high grass. They turned themselves to cover every angle of approach, moving in a quiet, circular pattern. Trajan checked his display. The dot was directly beneath his feet. He stared at it in annoyance, cursing the errant tech-priest that had somehow offended his armor's machine spirit. It was malfunctioning, clearly. A flicker of red light on his breast plate caught his eye, but it disappeared almost instantly. Trajan tapped his helmet, seeking to somehow eliminate the visual glitches.

"Brother Artegus," he said. "Get on the vox. Tell the captain that we have reached the objective and there is nothing here."

"Sir!" called Tiber. "I think you should see this."

Trajan nodded and moved to Tiber's position. The marine was standing in a place where the grass parted, revealing the mud below. He pointed to the dirt, and Trajan's gaze followed his gesture. There was a massive imprint in the ground, a three-toed hoof print nearly ten meters long. Tiber dropped to one knee, tracing a finger across the soft earth. Grass had been bent and crushed under the enormous foot, and now it was buried in the mire. Trajan noticed a pattern running across the print, a series of parallel lines similar to the treads of his boots.

"What sort of creature could make such an impression?" Tiber wondered aloud. "This planet is too small to contain monsters that size. The biome analysis does not support it."

"Exactly," said Trajan. "It's not a beast. The pattern here is too regular to occur naturally. A machine made this."

"A machine?" said Tiber. "Not even dreadnoughts are that large. It would need to be at least as tall as a knight, or..."

"A Titan," Trajan finished. He took another look around, suddenly feeling very exposed in the clearing. "We don't have enough firepower for this. We must withdraw and reassess our strategem."

Brother Artegus finished his communicae, and nodded to Trajan. For a moment he paused and wiped at his breastplate, a look of puzzlement hung over him despite the helmet that obscured his face. "What in the...?" he mumbled.

"Status, Brother?" asked Trajan.

"Fine, sir. Just for a moment I thought there was a spot of red on my armor. Gone now. Must be a quirk of the machine spirit."

Trajan felt his mouth go dry. The world itself morphed around him as his combat senses sent adrenaline surging through his body. His gaze snapped to the treeline, scanning for targets but only finding the same flecks of bird and land creature signatures as before. The foliage was simply too dense to penetrate. He waved his men back in the direction they had come, his hand moving in slow motion as time seemed to drag its feet. He heard a distant whistle, a sound that rapidly grew in intensity until it was a roar. He knew the sound. Centuries of battle experience had taught him its meaning.

"Get down!" he cried. "Incoming fire!"

A dozen detonations blasted around him as a volley of missiles impacted the squad. Artegus disappeared in a shower of blood and ceramite as the ordinance tore through his armor. Trajan saw his left leg fly away from his body, detaching at the knee. Tiber's breastplate and pack were gouged with shrapnel, and the blast threw him off his feet. The young marine toppled heavily and lay still, the reactor that powered his armor destroyed. He was now trapped in his own suit, unable to move as its joints locked in place from the power surge.

Trajan rolled onto his chest and raised himself on his knee and what remained of his damaged leg. He unleashed a burst of bolter fire into the treeline, shooting blindly into the undergrowth. In response the trees bent, as if something terribly strong was pushing them aside, and a long hovering vehicle slipped out of cover. Its armored hull seemed to shift and shimmer in the sunlight, blanketed by a thin sheet of some translucent energy field. Even as it took its position within arm's reach Trajan's auspecs couldn't lock onto its signature. The field pulsed near the corners, emanating from four hovering disks that flanked it on either side. These withdrew from the field one by one, revealing the vehicle completely. It swiveled a long, intimidating cannon mounted on its upper chassis, taking aim directly at Trajan. The marine roared a challenge, spreading his arms wide and inviting the shot. The cannon answered his call, but just before it fired he uncoiled his good leg, using every ounce of his inhuman strength to launch himself clear.

The air around him burned with the heat of a star. His auspecs melted away, and for a moment his vision was plunged into darkness as the external sensors failed. The backup lenses restored his sight, but their function was not as complete. He felt his flesh burning as the ionized air threatened to sear him within his armor. The blast wave cast him forward, and his body slammed heavily into the hull of the hovering tank. He slapped his hand down on the smooth surface, his fingers piercing the metal and giving him just enough purchase to keep his hold. He pulled himself up onto the sloped armor and kneeled once again, then began to crawl. His hand would shoot out like a piston and grab a handful of metal plate, then pull the rest of his body along. He dragged himself to the base of the cannon and pulled a melta charge from his belt, a device meant for the cannons they had been sent to destroy. He activated its supermagnetic lock and slapped it against the vehicle, then armed the timer for ten seconds. His work complete, he shoved himself away from the tank and allowed his body to roll down its sloped exterior and land heavily on the ground.

The blast that followed was deafening. It crashed against his skull, robbing him of consciousness, and as his vision faded into darkness he saw the scraps of xeno weaponry raining down like iron snowfall.

-

Fergus sat at the edge of the trench he had helped to capture just hours before. The night sky of Sy'l'kell had cast its shroud over the horizon, and alien star clusters and constellations glimmered above. Fergus watched the spectacle from his spot, scanning the skies to avoid the grisly scene at his feet. The corpses of the Guard and xenos alike still remained where they had fallen. There would be no burial for them. Such a ceremony would waste precious resources. Fergus could have easily watched the stars from the camp a hundred meters behind him, but the fires there gave too much light and would block out his view. So he sat atop the earthworks, absently strumming chords on his instrument. The supply ship had arrived three hours earlier, carrying the packs of the guardsmen. From now on, they would march with their bedrolls and few possessions on their backs. Among Fergus's kit had been his miniature guitar. He had learned years ago how to bury a small item under his bedroll in order to slip them past the quartermasters, and he had succeeded yet again.

Footsteps behind him interrupted his improvised ballad. He spun in place and saw Commissar Ortega approaching him. He scrambled to rise and salute her, but she waved him aside. "Carry on, McNeil. I didn't come here to shoot you."

"Yes, ma'am," Fergus replied. He placed his fingers back on the strings, but they shook badly and he couldn't make them obey him.

Ortega shot him an amused look as she stood beside him, arms folded behind her. "Something wrong, guardsman?"

"No, ma'am," said Fergus. "Just... wasn't expecting to have an audience just now."

"You're shaking like a leaf," said Ortega. "Funny. I watched you charge headlong into xeno gunfire today and you didn't show a single hint of fear. Tell me, McNeil, are you afraid of me?"

"Of course I am," Fergus replied, setting his instrument aside. "You can kill me whenever you please and for any reason you choose."

"So can the xenos," Ortega pointed out.

"I can shoot the xenos first," said Fergus. "Can't do that to you, ma'am."

Ortega said nothing. She simply stared down at Fergus, her expression placid. Fergus tried not to meet her gaze, but something about the pattern of her scars, the way her eyes burned with righteous fire even in the dark of night drew him in. She was terrible and beautiful, an avenging angel, untouchable and untainted by the evils of the galaxy. She was every inch the perfect portrait of what a Commissar should have been, and it made Fergus's stomach turn with unease. After another long moment she smiled ever so slightly. "You think like a guardsman should, McNeil. The fear of what's behind you should drive you forward to what lies ahead of you."

"Fear doesn't drive me forward," Fergus replied, then hesitated. It had come from nowhere, rising unbidden in his mind.

Ortega raised an eyebrow. "Oh? Then what does?"

Fergus dropped his gaze to the ground and shrugged. "I... I didn't mean..."

"I was watching you today, you know," Ortega continued. "After hearing your music I was curious to see how you fought. Men with hearts given toward song tend to be cowards on the field of battle. Their souls have such soft underbellies that they run and hide when the fighting begins. But not you. You charged ahead with all the courage and reckless abandon of a fanatic. You fought with suicidal fervor, and yet you survived."

Fergus summoned the courage to look up at her again. "Is... that a bad thing, Commissar?"

"In my experience, it takes an incredibly strong will to stay alive," she replied. "What is so precious to you that you will ignore death and still live on against the odds?"

Fergus paused. He had never really thought about it before. What was it that drove him to dive into battle? It wasn't fear of the officers at his back as it had been at the beginning. It had been years since he had truly felt the weight of the bolt pistols behind him. "I... I don't know, ma'am," he said simply. "Perhaps once I could have answered that question, but I've been fighting so long..." he shrugged. "Maybe I just forgot how to feel afraid. I forgot how to feel a lot of things." His fingers drummed silently against the guitar's scuffed surface. "Maybe that's why I play, to try and remember what feeling used to be like."

"You play very well," said Ortega. "At least you remember that. Where did you learn it?"

"My father taught me," Fergus replied, turning his gaze to the stars once more. "He was a musical remembrancer. My sister took over his duty when he died, and I was conscripted the week after. Never forgot how to play, though." He set the guitar aside with a sigh. "It's funny, when you think about it. Had I been born a year earlier I might have never even touched a lasgun. But here I am. At first I thought I would hate it, that I would be dogged with discontent and bitterness, and that my gifts would go unused. But to my surprise, I felt oddly at home here. The boys and girls love my music. It gives them hope, reminds them of what they fight to protect. Maybe that's why I never die. Maybe the Emperor wants me to stay and encourage his soldiers."

"The Emperor protects in more ways than one," Ortega agreed. "Perhaps he watches over you more closely than most."

Fergus rose from his spot and slung his guitar's strap over his shoulder. "Is there anything else I can do for you, ma'am?"

To his surprise, the Commissar smiled at him. It was different than any expression he had seen her wear before. It was devoid of the sneering arrogance that often typified her kind, and for a moment she almost seemed human. "That will be all, McNeil."

Fergus nodded and began to walk away, but a cry from the direction of the camp made him pause. He saw shadows moving past the fires, dozens at once. People were sprinting in a mad rush, heading toward something Fergus couldn't see. He heard someone shouting, calling others to join him.

"It's the Astartes! The Emperor's angels are here!"

Ortega's expression darkened. "Space marines? We aren't due to be reinforced by the Astartes. Their objective is west of here. Something must have gone wrong." She broke into a run, joining the throng with Fergus at her heels.

The mob was held back by a pair of giant armored warriors standing with their palms held outward. Behind them a squad was trudging slowly toward the rear of the encampment, carrying the broken bodies of their fallen brothers in their arms. More of the blue, yellow, and black marines emerged from the darkness, three separate chapters all marching together. The guardsmen shouted over one another, pushing and shoving their comrades aside to catch a glimpse of the Angels of Death. For months they had been surrounded by the austere soldiers aboard the warships, but the chance to see an Astartes in full battle plate was a rare one, the sort of thing that only a guardsman with a service record like Fergus's had a chance of seeing. Ortega battered her way through the crowd, and Fergus meekly slipped through in her wake. She reached the pair of marines and stepped away from the rest of the guardsmen. The space marine on the right regarded her with a nod.

"Are you in command here, Commissar?" he asked.

"I am," Ortega replied with a solemn bow of her head. "Commissar Gwendolyn Ortega at your disposal, my lords."

"Our initial assaults sustained heavier losses than anticipated," said the Astartes, "and xeno snipers have killed our apothecaries. We must bring our wounded back to the fleet to replenish our forces. We require the use of your transports."

"They are yours," said Ortega. "I must advise you that we took heavy fire during initial landings. Have those cannon emplacements been destroyed?"

The marine hesitated, looked to his battle brother for guidance, then with a slow nod turned back to Ortega. "Negative. There were no emplacements. Whatever drove back the fleet is mobile. There was nothing at the points of origin but ambushes."

"Then you will not be allowed to leave freely," said the Commissar. "Escaping atmosphere is much slower than reentry. They will shoot you down before you make orbit."

"We have already addressed that," said the marine on the left. "Chaplain Gavroche has instructed me to deliver your new orders. In two hours you will make a diversionary assault to draw fire away from the transports. You will commit all your forces to this attack. Failure is not an option. Until those orbital defenses are thinned, reinforcement would be inefficient and therefore will not be considered."

"I understand," Ortega replied, her voice turning sharp and icy. "You wish us to finish a task that you failed to complete. Never fear, my lords. The Guard is not so easily bested by xenos hiding in treetops as the Astartes."

"I would watch that tone if I were you," said the first marine flatly. "Words like that can get you into trouble."

"You wish to send me on a suicidal mission with no real purpose or chance of success," Ortega snarled. "You'll pardon me if I fail to think of anything more troublesome than that."

Fergus winced. He knew very little of the Astartes, but he had seen firsthand what they could do when enraged. However, much to his relief the blue-armored warriors did not respond. The second marine simply nodded. "You have your orders."

"I do," she snarled. "And now I must discuss the... 'fine details' of this strategy with Chaplain Gavroche. Let me pass." She stepped between the pair, then paused to look back at Fergus. "Go and play for the men, McNeil. They'll need some encouragement before this night is over."

Fergus saluted and watched her push past the Astartes. He shook his head in wonder and muttered under his breath. "And she thinks I'm the one without any fear."


	16. Chapter 16

Vre'Kri checked his instruments, scanning the layout of the space ahead. The defensive orbital station was marked by a red diamond in the upper corner that crawled toward the center as the Barracuda drew nearer. It was still distant, barely a speck on the viewport, but Vre'Kri could tell at a glance that he would be upon it within the next two minutes. He had grown up aboard Air Caste ships, often staring out in wonderment at the vastness of space as a child. In those days the sight of massive cosmic objects surging mightily into view had both terrified and inspired him. Over the years he had developed an innate sense of distance, speed, and time from watching worlds and stars flying past the viewports. It was a common trait among his people, almost like an extra sense. On the ground one's perception of weight, momentum, and speed were shrouded by a veil of gravity, but the Air Caste knew the true ways of the universe. They saw physics in its purest form from birth, and were not prone to disorientation like other creatures. Up and down were relative, antiquated terms from a more primitive era, as was the concept of distance. Every member of the Air Caste had memorized the classic mantra, and Vre'Kri absently quoted it to himself now as he eased back on the throttle.

"There are no large distances, only low speeds."

The approach of the station slowed to a nearly imperceptible crawl. Vre'Kri pressed a switch and activated his long-range scope. A magnified image of the station appeared before him on his display. He studied it intensely, leaning forward in his seat. The Gue'la had been busy. A constant river of small vessels flowed between the station and a nearby warship. The outer plating had been removed in several sections where they appeared to be cannibalizing the facility for parts to repair their damaged battleships. Vre'Kri scowled as he saw one of the outer bulkheads being removed and pushed in the vessel's direction, being collected by a swarm of tiny glowing objects that milled in all directions about the hull like a hive of restless insects. Nearly all the scrap was being similarly processed, leading Vre'Kri to wonder what was in the transport craft. Were they also removing materiel from the station, or were they delivering something to it? He eased the throttle forward, resolving to find out. He pushed the lever slowly until it reached the maximum, then activated his afterburners. The Barracuda accelerated gradually, then slammed ahead as the engines roared in protest. The distant station grew quickly in the viewport, rapidly filling Vre'Kri's vision. He activated his targeting module and spun up his burst cannons, then dove into the line of transports.

Everything seemed to happen in an instant. He selected his targets, shot a quick volley, then moved to the next. The vessels bore no real armor to speak of, and even if they had the capacity for evasive maneuvers his attack had caught them off guard. Most of the craft simply continued on their, outwardly oblivious to his destructive presence, but inwardly filled with panicked crews praying for the Emperor's protection. Vre'Kri cut his engines and stopped himself as the transport directly ahead of him erupted in a ball of flame before being snuffed out by the vacuum around it. Debris floated past his canopy, the cargo now plainly visible. There were scattered components, flashing lights, the crackling of electrical currents. Cables and piping rattled against the Barracuda, shaking the small fighter but doing no real damage. Vre'Kri sent a signal to his sensor units, instructing them to capture a few images of the debris. The Earth Caste would examine them later to try and determine the identity of the cargo.

A red warning strobe flashed on his left, and he glanced in the direction of the warship. He had never had a chance to examine one of these arcane ships so closely before. No one in the Empire had. At this distance the vessel felt as large as an entire world. Its spiked surface was decorated with all manner of ornate totems and fixtures, as beautiful as they were sinister. Bodies crawled about on its hull like arachnids, humanoid shapes perverted by an infusion of crude technology. These creatures seemed to be making repairs, ignoring the horrific agony of exposure to open space. Skulls and eagles covered the bulkheads they labored over, and the entire hull seemed to leer with a thousand faces. A few of the ship's spires swiveled on domed mountings, pointing sharp fangs at the Barracuda. Vre'Kri shuddered and threw power back into his engines, eager to be away from the monstrous vehicle. He turned about and sailed away in the direction of his fleet, narrowly avoiding a blast of white fire that erupted from a hundred turrets at once.

-

Chaplain Gavroche watched with a mixture of anger and amusement as Commissar Ortega stomped her way up to him. He was standing near the dropships, making the final preparations for the departure of his men when she approached, limping on the bayonet that had replaced her leg. Her eyes glowed with the fires of the damned, and her gaze was like the burning pits of Nocturne. She gathered herself up as she reached him, standing with her back slightly arched to make herself as tall as possible.

"Chaplain Gavroche?" she asked, her voice icy and venomous.

"I am the chaplain," Gavroche replied. "Do you require something, Commissar?"

"An explanation," said Ortega. "You've ordered my men into a suicidal attack. I want to know why."

"You know why," said Gavroche flatly. "My orders were clear."

"Clearly idiotic," Ortega replied. "You want to run back to the fleet with your tails between your legs, all while we are sent into the grinder to do your job for you."

"Watch your tone," Gavroche snapped. "You're out of order, Commissar."

"My duty is to ensure the effectiveness of my men," she continued, unphased. "What am I to tell them? That we are expected to succeed where the Emperor's angels have failed?"

"Tell them whatever you wish," said Gavroche. "Their purpose is clear. What is the Guard for, if not to die for the Emperor? Do you mean to tell me that you have a problem with your men serving their intended function?"

"My men's lives are a resource," said Ortega. "Every one is prepared to die. I have no problems with sacrificing them for the Imperium, and I would do it in a heartbeat. But resources are provided by the grace of the Emperor. Such things deserve respect. Life is to be spent wisely, not wasted in useless assaults. Do you mean to tell me that you wish to be wasteful with what the Emperor, in his infinite and eternal wisdom and grace, gave you? The attack will fail, make no mistake. We took far heavier losses than your marines, Chaplain, and we did not have the luxury of teleportatiums or drop pods to replenish our numbers. I wouldn't be surprised if you have more Astartes than I have soldiers."

"You will take their attention away from our departure," said Gavroche. "You will draw their fire until we can send in further reinforcements. It is not a waste to buy us time. When next we strike, we will do so with enough force to eradicate any resistance. Your sacrifice will not be in vain."

"We will be dead before your dropships reach the upper atmosphere," said Ortega. "Their weapons will tear you apart, and our feeble assault won't even phase them. Until those cannons that drove the fleet back are destroyed, no one will be leaving this planet alive, especially without an orbital bombardment to cover their withdrawal. Your marines will be picked off, their centuries of battle experience wasted by your zealotry. I have seen such things before. You're about to make a very big mistake, Chaplain, and if you go through with this you will bring shame on the Black Templars for centuries to come."

"What would you know of the Templars?" Gavroche demanded. "You forget your place, Commissar. You are nothing but a woman, another body on the firing line. All that separates you from your men is the uniform you wear. It is not the place of lowly mortals to question us. We are more than our armor, and we are above your feeble kind in every respect."

"I recognize your augmentations," said Ortega. "But you are mistaken. What separates me from my men is my mind. Yours seems to have been removed and exchanged in favor of your muscles. At least hear me out. You're centuries old. Surely you can spare five minutes."

Gavroche sighed heavily and crossed his arms, his reply dripping with sarcasm. "Very well. If your mind is so brilliant, then let's hear your grand stratagem."

Ortega ignored his tone. She leaned forward, earnestly explaining her plan. "Those weapons need to be destroyed, on that we are agreed. We tried to be surgical and efficient in our opening moves and it failed. They were ready for that. That's because precision is their method of warfare. I saw their weapons. They're slow-firing and highly accurate. Their war machines are light and nimble for jumping in and out of danger. They blunted our offensive by refusing to engage us in the open. Instead they lay in wait, ready to ambush us. But they will falter if confronted directly. Now is not the time to flee. Now is the time to hit them with the full brunt of Imperial might."

"We do not have the manpower for such an attack," said Gavroche with a dismissive wave of his hand. "Traditional Guard doctrine requires wave after wave of infantry, and we cannot land enough troops with those weapons still in play."

"Not on our own," said Ortega. "But the xenos have yet to face a true force of power. They caught your marines flatfooted, but under the full weight of a concentrated Astartes advance supported by my men, they will break. They cut us off from our fleet, and now they will try and harass our lines until they are sure they can kill us quickly. The last thing they'll be prepared for is a direct assault straight up the center, and the might of your Astartes will teach them fear. We'll smash through their line and find those weapons before they even realize what's happening, but it must be done quickly." She stared deep into the red lenses of the chaplain's helm. "I know of the Templars. You are filled with fire and faith. You don't want to retreat, not really. You're only doing it because of the words of an ancient book written by a man who is now dead, a man who did not care for glory. Would you let the holy fire in your soul die out before the battle has even begun?"

Chaplain Gavroche broke eye contact, scowling at the ground beside him. For several moments he said nothing, his fists clenching and unclenching with pent-up fury. After many tense seconds had passed he looked at Ortega again. "Perhaps your plan has merits. I will discuss it with my officers. Return to your men. You will know my decision within the hour."

Ortega bowed her head, all traces of her previous anger and disgust vanishing from her face. "Thank you, my lord. I hope we may crush the enemies of mankind side by side. I shall await your word." With that she saluted and turned away, marching smartly back toward the camp. Once she was out of sight she let out a sigh of relief and clutched her shivering hands, hiding them behind her back. It would not do for the men to see that she had been shaken by the marine's anger. Far better for them to believe that their feared commissar was afraid of nothing, not even the Emperor's angels of death themselves.


End file.
